


Simmer

by oxfordandmischief



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chef Marco, F/F, F/M, Homophobia, Jean is dealing with some stuff, M/M, Martial Artist Jean, Mentions of Suicide, Prodigy Marco, Slow Build, They're in their early twenties, Trigger Warnings, multi-chapter, so is marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 79,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxfordandmischief/pseuds/oxfordandmischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt has two Michelin stars to his name and is the head chef at a restaurant with a crew better than any could ask for, but it comes along with a desperate fear that he's becoming much less than the prodigy he was at 16. Jean Kirschtein has just finished his degree and has come home to his father's farm after a death in the family that he doesn't know how to deal with. But, as it happens, Kirschtein Produce supplies Marco's restaurant, and after Jean is roped into doing deliveries he meets Marco. Handsome and talented Marco who feels like a failure and who Jean really shouldn't be paying attention to. Not when he's supposed to be there to help his father. And not when that same father isn't a fan of Jean's less than heterosexual feelings. And Marco, who shouldn't be so quick to find inspiration in an undercut and a scowl when he's trying to have an existential crisis about his career. Like they always do, no matter the circumstance, Jean and Marco fall in love. Maybe over expertly sauteed vegetables. Or maybe not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fanfiction in years, but I decided that it would be great writing practice, and Jean and Marco are always hanging around in my head, anyways. Might as well get them down on paper. 
> 
> This is just a fun thing to write, and I haven't heavily edited it, so please let me know about typos. I plan to have many chapters, a good length story that is extremely fluffy and adorable, if I can manage it. As long as people like it. Who knows! I don't have much knowledge about the culinary world, so feel free to correct me. But also, like, maybe suspended some disbelief? I do, however, have martial arts experience, so if I ever get as far as to write Jean's character as I intend to with lots of black belts and butt-kicking experience, that stuff should be moderately correct. Expect more characters to show up later, I'm sorry if you followed some links and they aren't in this chapter. 
> 
> These two are always falling in love, and I always enjoy reading about it. I hope that at least someone enjoys reading this as much as I have reading other fics about these two dorks. Feel free to message me at my tumblr! http://oxfordandmischief.tumblr.com/

  


_It's not_ bad, _Marco, it's just... missing something. That one thing that makes it really a Marco creation..._

_It's just not the same as your original work_

_Just not the same_

_Not as_ special _...._

 

Marco Bodt always thought that 'tasting defeat' was a metaphor.

He's just proven himself wrong.

Failure, he decides, tastes like bread on the wrong side of 'just moldy', cheap red wine, and frozen, microwavable mac and cheese. He's nauseated at it. Taste is Marco's _thing_. Whatever psychosomatic event is happening to his taste buds right now is just cruel, considering the panic that's going on at the same time in his head. He's going to throw up.

Instead, he grabs a glass of something off a tray at the bar and throws it back in one gulp.

Defeat doesn't taste better mixed with expensive champagne. Maybe he needs more. Maybe he's still going to throw up. Who can say.

Most of Marco Bodt's team are still there when he stumbles through the kitchen doors. His patisseries, Ymir and Christa, are alternating between scrubbing at their counter and drinking large glasses of red wine. Armin is going through the wine list once again with Eren, Berhodlt is shining a pile of knives, and Levi is up to his elbows in dish water and rubber gloves.

 _Don't make eye contact_ , Marco thinks, _Of all the people to disappoint, Levi - master chef Levi - would be the worst._

Christa sees him first, but when she sees his face her hopeful expression falls. Marco trudges over to the apron hooks and has his back turned, trying to untie the knots he always makes too tight, when he hears both of them come up behind him.

"Marco...?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Ymir leans on the wall beside him, "That bad, huh?"

He turns his eyes to the ceiling, because the ceiling is less judgmental and won't mock him if it sees water in the corners of his eyes. Neither will Christa, perhaps, but the ceiling also doesn't pity his weak self.

"It just didn't...'have that Marco taste'," he quotes mournfully.

Ymir smirks, "They probably could have put that a better way."

"Ymir," Christa hisses, and shoots her a look before putting a hand on Marco's shoulders, "You shouldn't worry, Marco. One meal that maybe doesn't go so great isn't the end."

He looks at her, a whole foot smaller than he is, and radiating encouragement from her half-smile and big blue eyes, "Yeah," he says quietly.

In his head he asks, _And what if it is? What if this is it?_

"Bodt!"

Marco winces. Levi, from his place on the stool in front of the sink, is glaring.

"Stop moping about one mediocre dinner. It's pathetic," He crashes one of the industrial-sized pots into the drying rack, "Now go home before you infect anyone else with your negativity."

If negativity was actually an infection, Marco thinks, Levi would have died long ago from it.

"He's right," Mikasa says, arriving from the dining room with the last of the dinner plates from their regulars, "Take the rest of the night off and get some rest for tomorrow."

Ymir reaches up to ruffle his hair, "Yeah, Freckles. Come back tomorrow and make more of your bammin'-slammin' booty-licious cuisine."

Christa shakes her head. Only Ymir would call a 150$-a-plate meal "booty-licious".

Marco attempts a smile. From their reactions, the attempt fails.

 

Marco loves 104. He does. He loves the beautiful, gleaming kitchen, the heat, the energy. He loves the constantly stocked walk-in fridge and the dim glow of the cellar light as it reflects off dark bottles of wine. He loves that, during the rush, when he suggests something the kitchen team yells _yes, Chef!_ and then they do what he asks, no questions asked. He loves that after the rush they're his friends again. 104 is his restaurant - maybe not with his signature on the deed, but it's his domain all the same.

A kitchen like this is a sign for anyone in Marco's field that they've _Made It._ Capitals necessary.

And the two Michelin stars outside the door of 104 speak louder than any clamor in his kitchen or guests in the dining room.

"'Night, Armin," he says when Armin waves from a chair near the door, after he's gone and changed back into regular clothes.

"Goodnight, Marco."

Levi's head pops out of the office in the corner, "You're on vegetable pick up tomorrow, Bodt. Don't forget."

That's a four AM start to his day, but Marco's gone numb now, and he only nods. He won't be asleep, anyways.

 

He's 23. At 16 he was a prodigy.

Marco wonders when he started using past tense before that word. _Prodigy._

Probably about the time when his regulars started giving kind (and indulgent) smiles, like he'd drawn a mediocre picture for the first time and no one wanted to tell him how bad it really was. When his food started to be _boring_. When he started loving 104 on principle, rather than in practice.

 

So Marco Bodt leaves 104 and heads out to his electric car, which he drives halfway out of the city until he reaches to McDonalds on the edge of the ravine. He orders two cheeseburgers and a chocolate milkshake and a ten-pack of chicken nuggets with sweet and sour sauce and then he sits on the trunk of his car and eats every bit of them while he sits and watches the world from the parking lot. It's cold tonight. Cold enough that he has to get the plaid fleece blanket from the backseat and cold enough that after the first burger his nose has gone numb.

_I'm about to become a failure._

There's no light in the ravine. Plenty of light from the cars driving down the bridge, but none in the trees along the river. Marco perches on his car for so long at all the world becomes nothing but the slope down into that darkness, with him at the top of it all. He still feels sick. The burgers probably didn't help.

 _Better get used to the view, Bodt._ _It's all downhill from here._

Jean Kirschtein is 22. He wonders, though, if somehow he found himself a time machine and has ended up in those days back when he was 15 and working on the farm in the summer like usual. When his dad would wake him up in the mornings before the sun came up and he'd grumble and eventually pull himself out of bed and get to work.

Because he's pretty sure he's 22 and his dad is waking him up and there's no way the sun's up yet. It's too damn cold. Those four years at university seem like a dream he's just woken up from. Back to reality. Back to his childhood. Degree be damned.

"Jean, wake up. I need your help."

Jean groans, "What time is it?"

"Just before four."

He groans again.

"Come on, bud, I'm in need of a driver.

With the comforter wrapped around his shoulders he sits up, and digs a hand from the blankets to swipe across his eyes, "A driver for what?"

His dad isn't even looking at him. He's on his phone with the light from the screen highlighting his definitive nose. The hallway is leaking light into Jean's comfortable haven of sleep and he wants more than anything to go back.

"Deliveries. The usual. I've got to go to a Farmer's Association Meeting, I'm the only one with the minutes and I forgot all about it."

Deliveries aren't usual. Jean's never done them before, it's something new his parents started after he left for school.

"I've got a list for you - addresses, stock, names," His father reads his mind sometimes, "You'll be fine. The truck's packed."

"What?"

"The truck, Jean, pay attention," Mr. Kirschtein slaps the list against Jean's blanket-covered chest, "First drop-offs at 5 in the city. You gonna be alright?"

Jean rubs his eyes again, "Yeah. Yeah, get going. I'll do it."

"Thanks, Jean. I owe you one."

 _Add it to the tally_ Jean thinks. He stays quiet.

 

When his dad leaves, Jean gets dressed in the dark in layers for this goddam cold. He never remembers fall being this cold. Europe has changed his temperature tolerance.

The farm is awake, the workers already heading to the fields and the greenhouses, and a few that Jean knows fairly well after a summer back-to-back with them packing up the truck the Kirschtein's have always used for Market. As Jean is waking over with a travel mug of coffee and a piece of peanut butter toast in hand, the back is latched closed by Thomas.

"Ready to go, Jean?" Thomas asks, cheerily.

Jean shudders, "As long as there's heat in the truck."

Thomas laughs, "It'll warm up. Just wait for that sun."

Jean wants to wait for the sun in bed, like a normal person. Like a non-farmer. He gets in the van and Thomas waves goodbye. Jean would wave, but his hands are switching the heat on in the cabin as fast as possible and besides, he doesn't want to be nice to these people. He _should_ be nice, it's not their fault, but the fewer connections right now, the better. He's lucky they're good people. They leave him alone to grieve, he thinks. And he's alright with that.

The farm may be awake, but the city isn't. Trost is asleep and the roads are empty. It makes the traffic lights look overly enthusiastic without any cars cursing at them, too bright, too colourful. The fog that was settling into the hills in the outskirts of town is in the alleys between building and in the ravine, Jean sees as he drives by. He taps his fingers on the wheel and sings under his breath to whatever dated nineties song they're playing. The truck is old. It's got his family's logo in peeling paint on the side. The radio refuses to play anything but that single soft rock station, and it has for as long as Jean can remember. When his mother used to sing along to the familiar songs in falsetto voices with  him tucked into the backseat, not old enough to sit in the front. When she would turn around to wink at him at stoplights. He remembers her profile, the dark hair, the French accent saying his name. All those old memories in this older town.

Jean thought he'd left this damn place behind.

 

The first location on the list only says _104_ , like Jean is supposed to know what that is. He almost misses the storefront driving by and has to nearly topple the truck to turn into the alley in time. There's a small courtyard in the building, big enough for a few parking spaces or one large van. The signs say "Staff Parking Only" but Jean doubts there's anyone around here awake to ticket him.

When he shivers and jumps out of the van he wonders if there's anyone around, at all, to pick up their delivery.

His watch says five to five, so he hunches on the back bumper and pulls his sleeves over his hands and breathes into them. He probably looks unprofessional. He probably looks like shit: he ignored the brush and the sweater he chose is worn from a long time of loving it too much to take it off, but he figures that whatever prissy restaurant owner shows up is used to his father, anyways. They're a family of farmers. So what if grass stains and grimy fingernails is part of the job description.

104, Jean assumes, is a restaurant, but the windows were too dark to see anything, driving past. Certainly they're picky about produce, whoever owns it.

The alley is remarkably spotless, too. He's sitting so still the sensor light has shut off, and the darkness closes in. It's full of mist, but the sun's starting to shuffle on the horizon like it might shake off its covers soon and start the day, but maybe five more minutes, like come on, its tired.

So Jean sighs and watches the cloud of breath dissipate into the mist. All mist is breath, he decides, collected from around the world tenfold and settling into the sleepy corners of the pre-dawn city.

And he hears someone coming. Footsteps on stone paving.

Jean stands, the light comes back on, and it shines on a man coming out of the mist, running.

Or maybe not a man, per say. He's younger, Jean's age, but he's taller, and he's in sweats and a blue zipper hoodie and bright orange running shoes, breathing heavily. He pulls up short seeing Jean and pulls the ear buds from his ears.

He's close enough now all Jean thinks is _my God that's a lot of freckles for one person._

"I'm late?"

Jean checks his watch but it's only 5:01 and he can't exactly fault this guy for a single minute of tardiness, not after his track record.

"...are you here for the delivery?" Jean says slowly.

The guy smiles in a way that suggests he does it a lot and without much thought. He's got the smile for it, though. All bright teeth and cheekbones and dimples and those wrinkly lines around his eyes from practice.

Jean likes to scowl. Smiling is for suckers.

 And people with better smiles.

"Yeah. I should have gotten here ages ago to unlock the place and, you know," he gestures to his clothes, "Look like a presentable business partner."

Jean doesn't mind.

"Uh, don't worry about it," Jean shrugs, ""s not like I'm wearing a suit here."

The guy smiles again, and heads to the door, pulling out a key ring, "Are you new? I've met most of the delivery people from Kirschtien Produce before."

Jean crosses his arms, "I _am_ a Kirschtein."

The guy pokes his head through the now open door with his eyebrows raised, "Oh?"

"Just came back from university, I've been helping out at the farm again for the summer."

Freckles ducks back into the restaurant, and then appears a moment later with a piece of paper in hand and the bulge of a wallet in his pocket.

"Welcome back to Trost then, Mr. Kirschtein," he says.

"Jean. It's Jean."

"Marco Bodt," says Marco, holding out a hand to shake. Jean takes it, "Sorry about the sweaty palms. Running, and all that."

Jean shrugs, "It happens." He's used to sweat. Summer on a farm isn't daisy fresh all the time.

Jean pulls open the back, searching his own list for the numbered crates he needs to pull out. They're all lined up at the back, a whole slew of them, and he checks them off in his head one by one.

Jean turns back to Marco, "Do you want me to carry them inside, or...?"

Marco shakes his head, "No, you can leave them out here. I'll carry them in myself," he smirks, "You ever done this before?"

Jean tenses, but Marco seems to mean it in a curious sort of way, "No. My dad didn't start doing deliveries until after I left. I just got stuck with the job this morning." He climbs up and starts carting the produce down.

"Exciting. Meeting new people and driving all over the city," Goody, this Marco is excited about the prospect of _meeting new people_. Enthusiasm this bright wasn't made for 5 AM.

Jean scoffs, "Yeah, at 5 in the bloody morning."

Marco laughs, and Jean realizes that Marco's stuck in the same place he is. Must be a grunt to have to be here so early. Lower rung on the ladder, earlier wake up call, Jean thinks.

"You seem to be awake enough to handle it," Marco says.

"Barely."

"If you keel over, I'll try to catch you before you hit the ground."

"I'd appreciate it."

Jean only notices when the last crate hits the pile, but the food his just dropped off is the _good_ stuff. He can tell. All the fruit is unmarked and perfectly sized, the stuff that buyers pay extra for, even though Seconds are almost always just as good for half the price. What's one or two extra little imperfections? But Marco is looking over it meticulously, nodding at most of it and scratching at flecks of dirt to make sure they aren't dents or bruises. With the alley growing lighter, he can see more freckles across his medium-toned skin. He's hunched over, eyes focused, with dark circles, Jean notes, that mirror his own.

Jean crosses his arms again, "Are you inspecting my produce?"

Marco raises his eyebrows and Jean tries to imagine that what he just said didn't sound like such a euphemism. He tries to keep his cheeks flush-free through willpower alone.

"Of course," Marco says simply, "Though I've never had any problems with the Kirschtein crop. You always bring the best."

Jean feels a little swell of pride. Of course they do. It's his family, after all.

"Oh. Thanks."

"Sure."

Marco reaches for his wallet, double checking over his list while he does, and when he's satisfied, he tucks it into a pocket and opens the wallet with both hands.

"As agreed upon," he says, pulling out a cheque first, and then once Jean has it in his hands, following up with a stack of twenties.

Jean takes a single look at the cheque and nearly rips it in half out of shock, "This cannot be the right amount," he chokes.

Marco's eyes widen. And then, like it's nothing at all, he reaches into the wallet and pulls out a few more bills, for good measure.

"Better?"

Jean takes the offered money slowly, "I meant, like - this is too much."

Marco folds the wallet and slips it back into his pocket, "I'm sure it isn't. That's no more than what we usually pay."

Jean's pretty sure that this is a confusion, because that is a _lot_ of money to pay for vegetables. And why half of it comes in cash, he isn't sure.

"But-"

"Jean, there's a reason why we're the first stop on your list," Marco says, prompting him to make the connection with a tilt of his head.

And Jean shuts his mouth with a snap. It's a bribe. They pay extra so his father gives them the absolute best. By bribing him. Better than any other delivery in the whole city. That's....something.

"Oh," he stammers, "Right."

"Are you upset?"

"No, I just...wasn't expecting..."

Marco shrugs, "This business is sort of a tricky thing," he offers, "Don't let it bother you."

"Right." Jean tucks the money away, and then he stands there a little awkwardly for a moment.

Marco looks at him expectantly, "Is there anything..."

"Oh, no. Sorry. Sorry, I'll go."

"You don't have to rush," Marco says kindly, "I'm not chasing you away."

Jean does blush this time, "No, I need to... I have other deliveries."

"Of course."

He turns to the truck, but then spins back around, "You're sure you're ok with carrying those in?"

Marco holds out his arms, "What, you don't believe in my strength?" he asks, jokingly offended.

Jean hesitates, "No..."

And Marco laughs, "I'm kidding. I'll be fine. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Kirschtein."

Jean pauses once more, and then gives a half sort of wave, "Yeah. You too."

Then he gets in his truck, and wants to crawl into a hole and die because he's the most awkward individual ever and how the _hell_ does social interaction even _work_ because normal people can't possibly find that _easy-_

He's got his foot on the gas when he hears Marco yell, "Wait!" and Jean (and his heart) slams on the brakes. The window rolls down, and he leans out to see behind him.

"What?"

Marco is standing at the corner of the truck, looking like he's trying not to laugh.

"You've left the truck open."

Jean. Hole. Die.Now.

 

He pulls away from the now mist-emptied alley late for his next delivery, his face feeling like its sun burnt to hell, and a laughing, freckled guy waving in his rearview mirror. And Jean has a moment when he doesn't regret being awake before the dawn. Just a split second, mind you. And it has nothing to do with orange shoes and a dark undercut damp from running through the mist. Absolutely nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco aids in scaring his coworker, Jean knows how to make grilled cheese sandwiches, and they both are horrible, horrible flirts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, here's chapter 2. Once again, only briefly edited, but there you go. I was supposed to be writing an essay and you know what I was doing? Thinking about these two flirting, I am just a nerd, seriously. I am an adult. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope that this is interesting to read, I have a lot of it worked out so please consider sticking around for a little while! The kudos were really lovely to get last time, so if you have a spare moment they really do encourage me. I don't know about an update schedule, but I'll try to write as fast as I can, so you should have something to look forward to. An typos, typos typos - point them out, they will be fixed right away! There's a Wisteria reference in here, too :) You'll catch it if you've read that one, it's not subtle. I think I need to be more subtle. 
> 
> Come and say hi at my tumblr, too! http://oxfordandmischief.tumblr.com/

Marco watches Jean Kirschtein drive away. In the rearview mirror his ears are red and he's scowling to himself, but all Marco can do is smile at the tail lights disappearing around the corner. Marco feels lighter. Something, he imagines, to do with the adorable guy and his ridiculous hair and his attempt to be the height of cool when his feet like to fall out from under him. What a dork. Marco is half infatuated already.

He looks down at the vegetables stacked around him and realizes he _wants_ to make something. He's inspired. The alley, for a second, disappears and he's in his hometown kitchen with a broken spatula and a box of cake mix thinking about making something that tastes like how warm laundry feels. And his mother coming down at the sound of the fire alarm in her pajamas, terrified for her life, to find Marco and a burnt cake at one in the morning. His toothy grin. Her shaking head.

But once the vegetables are all put away and Marco turns to his spotless kitchen, the memory dies, and his inspiration takes the knife and stabs itself for good measure. He remembers yesterday and the table of his regular customers letting him down as easily as they could.

Marco doesn't want to make a damn thing. Not if it's going to fail.

He should prep something, sharpen the knives, or run through menu items. But all he does is go up to the offices on the second floor and have a shower in the locker room. He stays under the water until the ozone smell from his run is out of his head and he only thinks about laughing as Jean jumped out of his truck to slam the sliding door of the truck shut. _Cute_ , he thinks unwillingly.

Then he scrubs the thoughts of Jean and of yesterday out of his head and gets out of the water before the bill gets too high and Levi comes after him.

And he picks up a book in his office and reads until the sun comes through his window. Just another day. One day fewer to enjoy before it all inevitably comes crashing down.

 

It's still early when Marco hears the back door open and someone scramble up the stairs at a manic pace. He's halfway out of his chair when Reiner appears, flipping off the lights and ducking behind Marco's door.

"Reiner-"

"Shhhhh!" Reiner hisses, still trying to tuck his massive bulk into a space too small to begin with, "Don't ruin it. Hide under the desk or something."

"What?"

" _Do it_ ," he says through his teeth.

And from below he hears someone else walk into the kitchen.

"Reiner? Your cell phone isn't in the glove compartment," Bertholdt calls out.

Marco looks at Reiner. Reiner gestures silently to the desk. Marco points to the stairs, where they can hear Bertholdt starting to climb. Reiner starts madly waving at Marco, and so he finally just relents and ducks under the desk.

"Reiner?" Bert's at the top of the stairs. He sighs, "Where did you go?"

Steps. He's coming closer.

"Reiner," Bert sings. _Closer_.

Finally, the steps stop just outside Marco's office. They pause. Then he steps inside.

"AH HA!" Reiner roars, popping out from his hiding place.

Bert screams. The screaming turns into a "Mother of _God_!" and Marco sticks his head up just in time to see Bert punch Reiner in the stomach out of impulse and then fall backwards on to his ass in the hallway.

Marco understands. Punching Reiner is like punching a wall.

Reiner doubles over, though, "Shit, Bert, what was that?" he wheezes.

"You scared me, you jerk! What the hell was _that_?"

"We were having fun!"

Bert turns his eyes to Marco, looking hurt, "And you participated?"

Marco shrugs, "I was coerced?"

"Oh sure, but _he_ doesn't get punched," Reiner mumbles.

"You were right there. It was a defensive reaction."

"Defensive reaction my ass, you wanted me to feel pain."

"I nearly had a _heart attack_!"

"Nice exaggeration."

"What the hell," says a new voice from the hallway, and they all turn to see Levi at the top of the stairs, "Are you doing?"

Erwin comes up behind him, looking like he's trying not to laugh. Levi, as always, is looking like he's trying not to murder someone.

"Uh, just playing a prank?" Reiner offers.

"Is this not," Levi drawls, "A professional establishment? Are we not all fucking adults?"

Marco stands up, dusting himself off. Because yes, that is what he is. Hard enough to keep respect from his coworkers when he's younger than most of them, this isn't helping. Levi heads to his office, as Erwin helps Bert to his feet. They all hear him mumble, "Why am I stuck with these shitheads," before he slams the door.

"Good morning," says Erwin, placating, "High spirits are good, but avoid trying to kill Bert in the future. We need him."

Reiner chuckles, "So do I. I'll do my best to keep him alive," he slaps Bert on the ass before he heads down the stairs, "Let's get to work, babe."

Bert, who looks like he just swallowed a carton of bees when Levi and Erwin showed up, only blinks in terror at his boss, averts his eyes, and follows.

Erwin turns his attention to Marco, "Good morning, Marco. How are you feeling after yesterday?"

Marco runs a hand through the hair at the base of his neck, brushing along the shorter hair before it meets the still-damp strands at the top, "Um, I think I'll manage."

Erwin nods, "That's good. We still need you, too."

Marco swallows the scoff that bubbles up from his chest. _Hardly_ he thinks. Erwin reads him immediately, "We do. No matter what reviews come up. You're still young, Marco. Every talent has it's fluctuations, and we'll get through them."

His eyes, Marco thinks, are so goddam intense it's hard to disagree. But he wonders if his own personal talent pool isn't just having a minor drought. He wonders if it's almost dried up all together.

But he doesn't disagree.

"Thank you," he mumbles, "That's... I mean..." he's not sure where he's going with this, "Thanks."

"Of course," says Erwin, "Now let's tempt Levi out of his office and sit down for our meeting about the menu, shall we?"

 

104 comes to life slowly, and then all at once.

Marco's co-workers stumble in as the morning drags on, mostly in pairs. The servers show up in Eren's piece of shit car with the bass turned up so loud everyone in the kitchen stops when they all feel it through the floor. Then the sound abruptly stops and a moment later Mikasa comes through the door. She leaves it open so Eren doesn't smash it open and break it again, and Armin follows after him, less enthusiastically.

"No one wants to hear your shit music, Jaeger," Levi snaps after Eren swipes his time card.

Eren usually has a comeback, but Levi happens to be sharpening his knives and no one handles knives quite like Levi. Most of them don't cross Levi when his hands are empty, let alone when he's got six inches of steel dexterously being spun in his palms.

"Sorry," he shrugs.

"And today, can you try to not drop any more three hundred dollar wine," Levi adds scathingly.

Eren bristles. Armin puts a hand on his shoulder, "Just be happy," he mutters, "that it was the wrong wine. The stuff you were supposed to have is almost double the price."

"Who the hell," Reiner cuts in from his counter, where the heat's already on so Reiner can start on the sauce for today's staff lunch, "needs six hundred dollar wine?"

"It complements the taste of the food. We were serving risotto and mushrooms," Marco says.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm sure the wine has a lovely talk with the food when it's in your stomach. Butters it up really well as it's drowning in acid. Flirts with your damn mushrooms."

Levi rolls his eyes.

"Bert understands wine," Marco says, "I'm surprised he hasn't converted you into wine tasting at home."

Bert looks up, eyes wide, "I've tried."

" _Beer._ Beer is much better," Reiner says happily, "Don't try to change me, love."

Bert dodges another slap to his butt, "Reiner," he whines.

Reiner laughs, "Can't keep my hands to myself, I know," and he's laughing when Christa pokes her head around the door and smiles.

"Good morning, everyone."

Ymir comes in behind her, yawning, with a plastic grocery bag in her hands. When she spots Marco she digs around in it until she finds what she's looking for and tosses it to him.

"Guess what I found today, Freckles?" she grins, "Your favourite."

It's a bag of Mike & Ikes, a flavour Marco desperately tries to find but never can.

"Wal-Mart," Ymir explains, "we went to that one at the far end of town, you know? Found them at the back of the shelf."

"Thanks," Marco says, and Ymir punches him in the arm.

"Ah, don't worry about it. Got to do something to cheer you up."

Eren walks past, "How can you talk to Reiner about not liking wine when you eat more junk food than anybody, Marco?"

"It tastes good," Marco insists.

"You work with the most expensive food in the world, and yet you still think crap food from the convenient store tastes good?"

When Marco shrugs, Eren shakes his head, "How did you end up head chef, I swear,"

The kitchen as a collective snaps to attention.

"Eren," Armin says flatly, "Shut up."

Eren looks surprised at the amount of hostility now being directed at him, but when he looks at Marco, Marco knows he sees the hurt on his face, no matter how much he's trying to swallow it down.

"Oh, shit," Eren says, "Not like that. I mean - I was kidding, shit Marco, shit, I'm sorry."

Marco cracks a smile, though it's fake as hell. Everyone pretends not to notice, "Don't worry, Eren. I know you didn't mean it that way."

Eren still looks like he wants to punch himself, but he's saved by Mikasa, who slides up to them and tugs Eren away, "Time to look over tonight's wine list again, Eren," she mumbles. Eren takes the chance to escape.

Marco wishes he could do the same.

The kitchen returns to normal, someone mentioning to Reiner about a new winter beer coming out at a bar downtown, and the conversation swells again. Christa walks up to Marco and bumps him with her hip, "Hey. For a second there when I walked in you looked almost like yourself. Before Eren stuffed his foot into his mouth."

"And what does my normal self look like?" Marco says.

"Like a smiley, freckled, bundle of sarcasm and sweetness."

Marco chuckles, "Do you have one of those descriptions for the rest of us?"

"Ymir's one of those illegal fireworks, except she's full of pop rocks and rocky road ice cream."

Ymir is playing rock-paper-scissors with Bert over who gets first dibs at the new vegetables, but she looks over at the sound of her name, "Damn straight."

"You're way too gay to use that expression," Reiner says.

"So are you."

He holds up his hands in defeat, "I am not arguing with you."

Christa shakes her head when they start bickering, "Did something good happen?" she says quietly to Marco.

Marco leans against the counter, "Met someone interesting this morning. The new produce delivery guy."

Christa raises her eyebrows, and Marco scoffs, "Not like that. It was just...nice to talk to someone. Someone who doesn't immediately ask about the restaurant."

 _And doesn't immediately trigger a panic attack because of it_.

Christa smiles, "Well I'm glad something nice happened. Maybe he'll come back. Maybe you'll fall madly in love and adopt freckly children and you'll remember the day you met as the best day ever."

"The _best day ever_ is turning out pretty normal, so far," he gestures to where Bert has lost and Ymir is triumphantly quoting _Game of Thrones_ quotes in victory as she stalks to the fridge.

Marco imagines that Jean would hate for 'almost ruining his family's deliveries' to be the first meeting of any relationship. Then he wonders if Jean loves someone who he told about it. Or if he loves anyone at all. Or if he'll keep it secret because he's too embarrassed to tell this mysterious lover.

"You never know," Christa says, "Today could be pretty fantastic, in the end."

Erwin walks in from the dining room, "Alright, everyone, meeting's in a half hour. Let's get going."

Marco straightens, "I'll keep that in mind," he tells Christa, heading to the walk in fridge.

She winks.

 

It's early afternoon by the time Jean parks the truck in the driveway of his farmhouse. There's a group of farm hands taking a break over by the barn, and he waves noncommittally to them. Somehow, though, it must come out as an invitation to come and talk because Thomas comes over.

It takes serious force of will for Jean not to sigh dramatically. So he settles for sighing silently, facing the other direction.

"Hey Jean, how'd it go?"

Jean shrugs, turning back to the truck "Ok. One of the guys didn't believe I was actually someone from the farm because he said I looked like a hoodlum, and then there was this old lady and her cat who came running out on to the street."

He digs his sweater out from behind the passenger seat, and when he turns around Thomas looks concerned.

"Did you hit them?" he asks, all hushed.

"What? God, no!" Jean says. He wants to follow it up by adding he's not that much of an asshole, but then he realizes he probably is that much of an asshole. Enough to hit someone, but not enough to intentionally do it, I mean come on he's not a sadist.

"Ok..." Thomas says carefully, "Well, your dad's not back and we're all finished up for the day, so I think you're off."

Jean grins, "Awesome."

"Mr. Kirschtein should be coming in soon, though. Those meetings don't usually take this long..."

Jean waves his comment away, "He's probably just talking to literally every person there over that crap coffee they give out."

"You're probably right," Thomas adds, calling out his goodbyes when Jean is already walking away. Jean salutes, without turning around.

 _Mr. Kirschtein_ , Jean thinks, and it brings his thoughts to Freckles and his restaurant, and Jean making a fool of himself. Memories, Jean thinks, are the worst when they can remember every single ridiculous detail about an epic failure, but nothing about, say, the parts of the hand when you're sitting in an exam room nearly in tears because all that studying has stuck in your brain about as well as a six year old sticks to a slip-n-slide covered in Vaseline.

They suck that way.

Also because he remembers the mist and the alley but he doesn't remember stupid things like Marco's eye colour or how tall he really was. Not that it matters.

Jean checks his phone for the first time since lunch and sees the snap chat notification. Sasha's sent him a blurry close-up of Connie's face, and the bruise that's blooming over his eye.

"Guess who punched themselves in the face?" says the caption.

Jean collapses on the couch, throwing an arm over his face, and he smiles because he knows no one is looking.

"Dammit," he breathes.

The next picture is Connie posing with a whole bunch of kids, all smiles and messy hair.

"White belts thought it was funny," Connie's typed.

Jean misses them. He misses his dojo and karate and his own new classes of white belts. He misses Europe and Maria University and classes.

He misses his mom.

But what he misses the most is all the sleep he didn't get this morning, and before he can really feel that loneliness start to grab him around the middle and squeeze until he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't breathe... he falls asleep.

And he doesn't dream.

 

 

He wakes up a few hours later, when the front door bangs open, and the heavy steps of his father cross the hardwood floor.

"Jean?"

"m' up," Jean mumbles, sitting up on the couch.

"Deliveries went ok?" his dad says, shrugging off his jacket. He's got a pile of mail in his hands, all haphazardly thrown together like he hasn't sorted it yet.

"Yeah, they were ok. You took a while."

"Went out with Jake to take a look at his mower, it was having problems last week," he walks over to the counter, "I might get you to keep going with those deliveries, then, Jean, you'd spare me up a lot of time that way."

Jean scoffs, "Really? Harvest is almost over, it'll be just the greenhouses soon, and you're giving me all the work?"

He means it as half a joke. But his dad doesn't respond. He's bent over the counter, the mail in his hands, dead silent.

Jean stands slowly, "...Dad?"

Mr Kirschtein starts, and then crumbles the mail together and runs a hand down his face before he turns.

"Yeah, sorry Jean, I-" he breathes out heavily, "I think I'm going to turn in, I'm not feeling..." he doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he leaves the room, and Jean hears the stairs groan, the master bedroom door shut, and that's it.

Jean walks to the counter and flips through the mail. Most of them are nothing special at all, junk mail. Internet bill. Election propaganda. And then, innocently, there's an envelope from the insurance company.

 _Mr. and Mrs. Kirschtein_ it says.

Simple black text can be unforgiving, Jean thinks, as he sighs and rips it open. Car insurance reminder about renewing Jean's student status for the farm vehicles. Nothing special. Nothing heartbreaking. He rips the envelope into about three thousand pieces and brings the letter upstairs to his room, a reminder to call them. He'll deal with it. That's what he does now. In the meantime, he'll sit in his room and watch something on his computer, and try not to think about why his dad couldn't handle that one thing, that one little thing. Just a name.  

At eight, when the supply of chips in his room is emptied and he's starving he knocks on his dad's door. When no one answers, he makes three grilled cheese sandwiches by himself in the kitchen. He eats two at the table in silence. He leaves the third on a plate. For two hours.

Then he opens a can of tomato soup, puts it into a pot and stands there, stirring. His reflection in the kitchen window doesn't look like him. Arrogance used to set his shoulders just so. Exhaustion and frustration with classes used to give him a particular type of dark circles under his eyes, like they were university badges of honour.

Now he just looks kicked, and not in a good way. Not in a sparring practice way, not at all.

He looks old. Like he's grown up. Jean never had Peter Pan ambitions, but he never wanted to look like he was so tired at 22.

The soup and the limp sandwich he puts on a tray and brings upstairs. The bedroom door is unlocked, so he leaves them on the bedside table, the side where his father is curled, pretending to sleep. Jean hears him breathe unevenly, so he adds, "At least have the water," in an undertone, and he closes the door behind him. His father's heart is broken, he knows. Jean wishes he didn't have to see it.

He wishes that his father wouldn't leave that one side of the bed so very, starkly, empty.

 

104 gets deliveries every three days, Jean learns, more than any other establishment on the list. His dad reminds him the night before, but Jean doesn't sleep well, and when the alarm goes off unforgivingly at four he feels like shit. The list is pinned to the fridge, with 104 right at the top once more.

Eventually, Jean thinks, he'll get used to this and won't need a list, and he is so depressed at the thought he chokes on his orange juice and nearly throws it up.

There's no mist this morning but it has gotten colder once again. Jean pulls on a hat, and doesn't notice until he's in the city it's bright red.

 _Couldn't have ended up with anything less conspicuous?_ He asks himself. He's never thought red was his colour.

But lucks not on his side today, anyways.

 

Marco leaves early that morning. He runs an extra kilometer, and gets to 104 in time to shower and look halfway presentable. You know. In case the delivery boy happens to be Jean, the prodigal son of produce.

 _I need to get out more_.

He's having coffee when the truck rumbles into the alley, and he smiles into the mug.

 _Today could be pretty fantastic in the end_ he reminds himself. Then he slips on a coat, because its god-awfully cold this morning.

 

"Back again, I see," Marco Bodt says, leaning out of the doorway casually when Jean pulls the truck door open.

"Tired of me already?"

"Nah," Marco says cheekily, "Nice to switch things up once in a while. Give it a few weeks, though, then I'll be less nice and _you'll_ be sick of _me_."

"Hardly. You're the best damn thing about this job," Jean says easily, and then he snaps his mouth shut and just _burns_ with embarrassment, "I mean - honestly, there's only crazy people wanting vegetables, and, uh, then _you_ -" Marco is just standing there, looking pleased, while Jean tries to dig himself out of this ditch.

"What about you, then," he snaps, "What did you have to do to get stuck with the early morning shift? Piss off the big head chef?" Jean says, bravado attempting to fill in for the cracks all over his personality from his shoot-me-dead-right-here-right-now remark. He picks up an extra crate just to feel more manly, and his back cracks loudly.

Marco looks away, and smiles like he's heard a great joke only he would understand, "Oh, I volunteered. The chef he...he's not so bad."

Jean is curious, but he doesn't ask. The more pressing matter is that Marco volunteered. For this shift. This shift where he gets to see Jean.

_Don't read anything into it._

"Oh."

Marco chuckles, "A real pain in the ass, and he has no idea what he's doing, but he's passable."

"Sounds like he's hella boring," Jean mutters. Marco laughs. "What?"

"Nothing," Marco says.

"I bet he's got to be pretty stuck up. This place looks high class." Jean finishes with the crates, but he doesn't move from where he's standing, talking to Marco.

Marco shrugs, "You should try it sometime. See for yourself."

"Not sure if this is really my sort of place," Jean admits. The last fancy dinner his family went to, all together, was at a the Keg. His father wore a tie. Jean ate almost nothing, but that wasn't entirely because of the location. "I'm more of a one-dish meal sort of guy."

Freckles leans against the truck and crosses his arms, "Oh?"

"I grew up on a farm. Quick, homegrown, pile of mush that looks like shit but tastes like awesome, that's dinner."

Jean tugs at his jacket zipper when Marco continues to look interested, "Sounds nice."

And that's it. That, right there, is a punch in the gut.

"It was," Jean mumbles.

"Sorry?"

"It's nothing," he says, louder, "Maybe one day I will try your hoity-toity restaurant. See what this boring chef has to offer. Menu's probably full of obscure shit I won't understand."

Marco snorts.

Jean is taken aback, "What?"

" _Hoity Toity?_ " Marco barely makes out, and then he's really laughing, keeling over, grasping his stomach, "What kind of phrase is that?" he says between gasps.

Jean is at a loss here.

"That's a perfectly acceptable phrase."

"Hoity toity!" Marco says again, and bursts into a new fit of giggles.

"Shut up!" Marco does the opposite. His laugh gets louder. His eyes squeeze shut and Jean wants to put his hands on those shoulders and shake some sense into him. What's wrong with that?

Marco has to sit down on the bumper before he can catch his breath, and it takes him a little while "Jesus, Jean, I haven't laughed like that in ages."

"It wasn't _that_ funny," Jean mutters. Marco only kicks out lightly at his shins from his place on the truck. Jean dodges.

"Whatever you say," Marco replies lightly. His smile stays on. The sun falls into the alley and brushes Marco's hair gently, turning it copper. It's appealing. Marco is gorgeous after all, like a freaking ten through and through, and Jean shouldn't be thinking this. He shouldn't be thinking of how Marco turns into the sun because it's got to be nice to feel what's left of summer in that light before the winter really sets in. Jean feels warm, as if by association.

Jean wonders how close you're supposed to feel to a person you've only met twice. Then he notes that Marco's eyes are brown, like, a _nice_ brown, and when he was standing he had a few deplorable inches on Jean.

And then he realizes that there's _sunlight_ and his watch must be wrong because holy hell is he late.

"Fuck!"

He remembers to close the back, this time, after he all but pushes Marco off the bumper, and when he gets in and shuts the door, Marco's suddenly at his window, tapping gently. Jean starts, but rolls it down anyways, letting the cold in.

"Come around sometime, alright? Even if it's not your cup of tea," he says. He smells like coffee.

"Alright, alright, pushy," Jean says begrudgingly, but he doesn't mean it, "Now get out of the road, I'm going to miss my next drop off!"

"Drive safe!" Marco calls.

Jean manages a smirk out the window before he makes the turn.

 

And if Marco's honest, that smile makes him want to cook. Something warm.

Something vividly, achingly _red_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Jean Kirschtein needs to realize what the hell a Michelin Star is. And also that reservations are not, in fact, for sissies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco finds his muse and Jean finds 104. If only there weren't critics involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This chapter is over 7000 words. I hope it's not too long, and seriously my hands are sore from typing so the editing is (once again!) pretty bad, but please enjoy! There's been a lot of really nice people leaving comments and kudos, so thank you for doing that! It's immensely encouraging, you have no idea :)
> 
> Ignore any incorrect things about the culinary world, especially the waiters - I have never been to a Michelin star restaurant, but if you're going to go Chef!AU you better go all the way, right? 
> 
> My favourite part of almost all fanfiction is that steady decline into 'hopelessly in love', and this chapter is really going to kick that off, so let me know in comments if you liked it!
> 
> PS Canadian spelling ftw. Tumblr @ http://oxfordandmischief.tumblr.com/
> 
> EDIT: Wow, am I finding lots of spelling mistakes. I am so sorry. I'm trying to fix them as I find them.

When you've lost your love for something, you don't focus on it. It sits at the back of your mind until you're reminded of it and it feels like lukewarm milk and soggy cereal. Like forcing yourself on a bad day to run the extra kilometer. Until one day, hopefully, when inspiration hits and you love it again, and it comes back to the centre of your world, where everything is a reference, every spare second a second for consideration.

Marco remembers when he used to feel that way about cooking, and it wasn't long ago. He used to come in to 104 in the mornings and just try things, make a wonderful huge mess, and the second anyone would step inside he'd have a spoon to their mouth urging them to _try it, this one for sure is the best_.

Now cooking is what he does as a job, and he tries to love it but there's only so much love you can give without getting any back.

And after a year at 104, everything was suddenly comfortable and familiar and Marco was basking in it all. Just soaking it all up, lying in the sun, so very _sure_ of the second Michelin star and the menu and his team. He was _Chef_. Head chef. In charge. Twenty two. The Paris graduate at eighteen who'd been the haute cuisine world's poster prodigy for a quarter of a decade.

It was bad reviews, maybe, of a new dish Marco was just so positive about. Maybe he was hearing things in the encouragement from his customers that sounded just...off. Maybe it was whispers subconsciously reaching under the kitchen doors and finding their way into his head and the knife slipped and the blood - the _blood_ ... maybe that was it.

He's getting old. Prodigies aren't old, prodigies are young. It's part of the definition.

 

But one thing that happens in the following weeks after Jean's red hat turns back to smile goodbye, and that is Marco starts thinking about food. Not in the capacity of work, but in a daydreaming way, lazily.

_What if I combined those?_

_What would that taste like, maybe if it was marinated... and those Spanish onions..._

That is something he used to do, you know. Back when he really loved cooking for all it was worth.

He thinks about things, and sometimes he takes out a piece of paper and unfolds it and even writes down his notes. Sometimes the flavours are so clear in his head, it's like he's been chopping and stirring and tasting it for days. That was always his specialty. When you're poor, you don't get to just try ingredients and throw away mistakes. When Marco was poor he would taste things and remember them and his recipes would come from a combination of all those mentally catalogued flavours expertly added and removed in the mixing pot of his head. Now, he imagines spices and colours and cooking times, the catalogue developed and renovated until it contains times for each oven in the 104 kitchen, the certain specialties of local garlic and organic vegetables.

When his inspiration starts to fade, Marco imagines a scenario where the plate is going to Jean, and it gives him the edge to continue.

Eventually, though, the compulsion to create fades away, and Marco is just too tired of even trying to scrounge up what's left of his culinary imagination because everything is hopeless and desperate anyways, right?

But then he meets with Jean again, and the spark of creativity comes back. Sometimes a lot. Sometimes hardly at all.

For the next two weeks, Marco makes sure that he is on the schedule for vegetable delivery pickup, just in case that day is the one where (by some miracle) that feeling he used to have about cooking flares up again. And Jean will be the one that starts that spark, Marco thinks.

 

 

But the thing is, Marco isn't just looking to Jean to inspire him, even if inadvertently. Marco just likes to talk to him, because Jean is legitimately interesting, and easily flustered, and completely arrogant about all the wrong things to be arrogant about, but that just makes it more amusing, doesn't it.

So they talk.

Marco finds out that Jean hates asparagus when he sees it atop one of the crates one day.

"How can you hate asparagus?" Marco asks, "Is there something wrong with it?"

"Yeah, there is," says Jean confidently, "It sucks ass."

"That's not the most clarifying reason you could give...."

Jean laughs, so suddenly that Marco's neck cracks when he looks toward the sound.

"Listen to you," he gestures, but Marco is just surprised how very _open_ Jean seems to be suddenly, "You want a reason? It tastes stringy and horrible, all the time. There."

"You just haven't had it cooked right."

"Yeah, I have, dude, and let me tell you: it didn't help."

Marco makes a mental note to one day cook Jean the most amazing asparagus he's ever tasted, to blow him away completely, change his mind. Except, of course, Marco seems to be keeping his actual profession a secret, and he's not sure why he's doing it.

Maybe it's because Jean seems to get more and more friendly every time he shows up, like he can relate to this Marco, this slumming-it, part time, minimum wage Marco, who gets stuck with the shitty jobs. The one he laughs with. The one Marco imagines being attractive, until he shows up a few days later and proves Marco's imagination completely insufficient.

Jean complains about the cold all the time. Between days he seems to accumulate layers. And the red hat doesn't make an appearance again, which disappoints Marco, though he doesn't comment on it.

They talk in the few minutes Jean has to spare when he's working and before he has to leave. Jean asks about Marco's running, and Marco tells him it's good for him. Marco asks about the farm and Jean tells him about the work winding down now that winter's coming. Marco asks Jean if he wants coffee sometimes, and Jean always says no, and Marco wonders if that means Jean doesn't like coffee. And it's a million things, a million conversations, that in a million ways feel like they've happened so many times before, like Jean has been meeting with Marco like this for years instead of weeks.

Like Jean came home to his farm after school and happened upon Marco waiting for him, like a perfectly timed coincidence that Marco feels more and more like he's _depending_ on. Like he needs Jean. Like Jean's a friend. And he wants to say something to that affect, but he's cowardly and weak, after all.

If not like a friend, then maybe like a _muse._ A very grumpy and handsome muse.

And Marco will never, ever, admit that out loud. 

 

Jean's yawning when Marco asks one day, "What is your degree, anyways?"

Jean's jaw snaps closed, "My what?"

"Your degree."

"Kinesiology."

Marco whistles, and Jean looks annoyed by it, "What?"

"Smart cookie, eh?"

Jean scoffs, "Hardly."

Marco holds his mug of coffee tighter, fidgeting on the bench by the door. He'd offered Jean one, but he'd refused, "And what, oh anatomy-master Jean, were your plans for this 'hardly smart' degree?"

"That's just sass," Jean says, pointing, "And I don't appreciate it."

"Oh, I think you do," Marco says easily, "And I think you want to brag about it."

"Am I bragging about it now?"

"You're holding back, I can tell."

Jean crosses his arms, "Can you now?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Marco asks calmly, leaning back against the brick of the building, "I can read you completely now. After two weeks, I think that I understand Jean-iology; they should give _me_ a degree. Marco Bodt: honorary degree in recognizing Jean Kirschtein's mannerisms."

Jean is fighting a smile, "That is so lame, man."

Marco shrugs, "It's true."

"Yeah? Tell me what I'm thinking right now."

Marco rolls his eyes over-dramatically, "I never once said I could read your mind, I just said I can read _you_. Example: defensive stance," Marco says, nodding to Jean, "Means you're avoiding the question."

Jean looks slightly taken aback and he tears his arms away from his torso, "It's cold. I'm keeping myself warm."

"Mmhhm," Marco says dryly.

"Oh, shut up," Jean mumbles.

"You going to keep avoiding the question?"

"Sports medicine," Jean says, "After grad school and all that shit."

Marco shakes his head again, "Med school," he fills in for Jean, "What did I say? Smart. Cookie."

Jean goes red, "I am really not."

" _Doctor_ Kirschtein," Marco intones.

Jean reaches into a create and comes up with a grape to throw at Marco, who dodges, but the grape lands in his coffee.

"Jean!"

"What?"

"What a waste of food!"

Jean only laughs as Marco fishes the grape out, despite scalding his fingers, and flings it back, missing Jean and sailing into the roadway.

 

 

"Marco Bodt you have a serious crush," Christa tells him, three days later, as the team is preparing for the dinner rush to start.

The day starts with one major exception: that Eren Jaeger is nowhere to be found.

"He wasn't in the house when we woke up," Armin tells a frustrated Erwin and a livid Levi, "he didn't tell us anything."

"How did you get here"" Bert quips from the sidelines, "If he took his car?"

"My motorcycle," says Mikasa dismissively, and Armin looks like reliving that scenario is off his to-do-list forever. In the cold, Marco can't imagine it was pleasant.

"And you've tried texting him?" Erwin asks.

"Yes," Mikasa says shortly, "I've tried everything, I don't know where he went."

There's an underlying threat in her tone that, once she finds out, she's going to be there so fast - if either to protect Eren or beat Eren up, it's unsure.

Levi, however, has no such ambiguity, "Tell him whenever he _does_ respond he'll be lucky to keep his job if he decides to show up like some fucking nomad for a goddam shift."

"Oh," says Armin under his breath when the two bosses walk away, "I have been."

And, three hours later, Eren is still missing in action.

Christa's, however, is not.

"I do not have a serious crush," Marco says emphatically. She's at the counter across from him, brushing butter on to layers of phyllo dough, "I don't have any crush."

She raises her eyebrows, "Of course not," she says sweetly, "That's why you've been desperately switching delivery duty with us to see him."

Marco's cheeks are starting to heat up.

Behind them, they hear, " _Is it smaller than a bread box_?" from Ymir, whose playing a game of 20 questions with Armin so he stops freaking out about Eren. Reiner and Bert are also playing, trying to fit their work on a counter space far too small for two people.

" _Uh, yes_ ," Armin says carefully.

"And you definitely do not have a ridiculous grin on your face every time I come in early," Christa goes on.

Marco is scraping cooked spaghetti squash from the shells, "Purely coincidental. You don't know Jean has anything to do with that."

 _"Is it a collection of things?"_ Bert asks.

" _Yes."_

"And you certainly haven't been writing secret lovelorn recipes for him in your spare time," she says, and that's the finishing blow. Marco's hand slips.

" _Is it associated with a person?"_

_"Yes."_

"Christa," Marco hisses.

"I haven't told anyone," she says innocently, "I've just noticed lately."

"That's not... I mean- it's..."

"Love," Christa enunciates, "And I called it from day one."

" _Is it something they carry around with them?"_

_"...in a sense, yeah."_

"Marco hides his face under his hands.

" _Is it a physical object?"_

_"No."_

"Marco... did I go too far?"

" _Is it associated with Marco?"_

_"Yes."_

"I don't know, Christa," Marco whines quietly.

And suddenly he feels his uniform jacket getting lifted in one swoop, exposing his lower back to the cold.

"Ymir!" Marco shrieks.

"Is it these sexy freckles?" Ymir cackles.

"Yes," Armin says, smiling, "got it in ten."

Bert and Reiner high five, and Ymir pats Marco's bare skin so he yelps again. Her hands are cold.

"I told you, I never break ten questions," she says.

"Could we not sexually harass the chef in the kitchen, please," Erwin says dryly, appearing from the dining room as he usually does.

"Is this a kitchen hygiene thing, or-" Ymir jokes, until Levi comes in too and sends her a death glare, and she shuts her mouth with a snap.

"Sorry, Chef," Ymir says quickly.

"That's ok," Marco says weakly. He sees Christa try to catch his eye, but he looks away.

And that's when the door bursts open, nearly smashing into Reiner, and Eren Jaeger rushes in, flushed and eyes wild.

"Guys," he says loudly, "I just found out. There's a critic coming." His eyes meet Marco's.

"Tonight. And it's Annie Leonheart."

 

Jean's father has a slump for five days where he doesn't talk except the occasional mumble. Three of those days he doesn't get out of bed. On the fourth Jean finds him on the couch at 4 AM watching baseball highlights from the world series, and that's where he stays for the next while.

Those five days see Jean trying to keep some food in his father's stomach and having a long, drawn out argument with the insurance company over keeping his rates low even though he's not actually renewing his student status.

Jean's lucky that the harvest is over. He's lucky because Thomas seems to know what's going on and he keeps the others in order, even though he's not paid a foreman's wage. So Jean keeps doing the deliveries and answering the phone calls and his default response is that his father has a bad cold and isn't going anywhere.

He feels like he's drowning again. Like he wakes up gasping. He's constantly nervous, constantly worried, he barely eats himself because his stomach is tied into a leviathan of knots and it just hurts. There are times when it's better, when he's talking with Marco and it feels like things are ok. Settled.

But it's so early in the morning and Jean is running on so little sleep that it feels more dreamlike than anything. Like Marco's just a hallucination, in an attempt for his body to try and work out the tension that's going to make him sick, he just knows it.

But Jean can't get sick, he can't. If he does, there will be no one to keep the Kirschtein family afloat.

Jean's drowning, after all. That water's closing in and he's barely keeping it together healthy.

After five days, his father seems to start back up again. He goes out for a bit, and comes back with groceries that Jean had been meaning to get. He talks to the workers, he takes the truck for an oil change at a friend's garage. But at the end of the day he sits on the couch in silence, and sometimes he hears Jean but mostly he doesn't.

 

That night, Jean opens the fridge and sees leftover mac and cheese, and can't even bring himself to heat it up for dinner. He does for his dad, anyways. It's late enough that Mr. Kirschtein should be starving, but he hasn't moved from the couch since six, so Jean puts it next to his feet on the coffee table.

Then he runs to the bathroom because he feels like he's going to be sick. Instead, he just ends up lying on the cold tile on his back until the nausea passes.

He wants to talk to Marco.

Marco works at a restaurant, Jean thinks. He's got some money, maybe he should go in, see if Marco's working. Buy a bowl of soup and see someone who's going to tease him and smile and Jean won't feel like he's being slowly crushed from both sides, like that trash compactor in  Star Wars IV.

He wonders if Marco knows that scene.

So Jean ends up digging out a collared shirt from his closet, ignoring the wrinkles because really, they aren't that bad, and wearing his nice jeans. For good measure he shrugs on his nice leather jacket, the one from France, and he thinks that he looks ok for a fancy restaurant. It's no black tie, but it'll pass.

He ignores the thought that he's dressing up for Marco because that is _so_ not true.

"Dad?"

Mr. Kirschtein doesn't respond.

Jean's got the keys in his hands, "Dad, I'm going out, ok?"

He hears a grunt in response, and sees the untouched macaroni, and sighs.

"I'll be back later," he mutters.

And then he's out of the house. Jean may not like the cold, but it feels like he can breathe when the first bit of night air hits his lungs. It stings down his throat like water, and Jean stops before he gets into the car, tilts his head back, and closes his eyes.

 

 

Marco thinks he's going to have a panic attack. Actually, Marco thinks he is currently _having_ a panic attack, because he's pretty sure the floor doesn't tilt that way normally.

The kitchen is alive. The dining room is buzzing. Reiner is singing Queen loudly to either keep his spirits up or to keep everyone else from cooking in complete silence, which is the only other option, it seems.

For all Marco's friends love him, he knows they understand right now he's barely getting by. That their restaurant is keeping their stars by the skin of their teeth, and though they may pass customer scrutiny, a critic is bad news. The worst news. Able to articulate exactly the holes underneath the gloss of expensive wine and overused menu that 104 is using to cover them up.

Holes that are undoubtedly Marco's fault.

Marco's pretty sure he can't breathe. He can't breathe. Oh God, he can't breathe.

It's Levi's hand on his shoulder.

"Bodt. _Marco_. Look at me." Marco looks down at Levi, "Take a breath."

Marco tries.

"Take. A. Breath. Bodt." Levi doesn't look angry. Maybe like the next course of action is to slap the breath back into Marco, but he doesn't look mad for once.

Marco gasps.

"Good. Bench, outside. You need to sit down."

The whole kitchen is watching.

"Reiss, go with him. Take your ten," Christa nods, and moves forward, Ymir effortlessly sliding into her space and continuing where she left off.

Levi turns back, "This is not the end, Marco. One critic isn't going to wreck us. Don't forget who you're working with," he says calmly to Marco. Then he turns to the kitchen as Christa grabs Marco's arm and guides him to the alley doors, "The rest of you. Let's go. I don't see that lamb plated, Hoover, and we're serving _you_ next."

" _Yes, Chef,_ " the kitchen says as the door shuts behind Marco.

Compared to the kitchen, the air outside is _cold_. It stings when Marco tries to breathe it in.

Breathe.

He sits on the bench, the same bench that he uses sometimes in the morning, with Jean, and tilts his head back with his eyes closed against the wall.

Christa is rubbing circles into his lower back.

"That's it," she saying, "keep breathing. You're alright, Marco."

Quietly, so the alley hardly hears him, he asks, "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to cook, Marco. That's what you always do."

Marco throws as arms across his face, "I'm not good enough for this anymore, Christa. I go back in there, and I'll let all of you down. That's all I do lately."

Christa grabs on to his hand, and tugs, "That is not true Marco. No one believes that."

He looks down at her, "Yes they do. They just like me too much to say it out loud."

He looks at her sadly, and her mouth sets into a hard line.

"You'll get it back, Marco. Your inspiration will come back."

Marco wishes it were that easy.

 

 

 _This was a mistake_.

Jean starts to realize something's off when he approaches 104 from the street, after he parks a few blocks away. There's an awful lot of people there, he thinks. Enough that it looks like something's gone wrong and spectators are gathering to watch for blood or fire.

But no, they are all wearing fancy clothing. Hell, that woman is wearing _pearls_? And there's more than one nice suit, properly fitted and everything. The small crowd outside eyes him scornfully when he turns to the door of the restaurant, and holy hell that's a Mercedes with a _chauffeur_ coming to drop off that couple.

But there could be an explanation, right? An overdressed party maybe?

Until Jean opens the door, and then it hits him that, holy shit, was he wrong about this place.

Because 104 isn't a nice restaurant.

104 is a culinary institute.

And Jean is totally fucked.

"Can I help you sir?"

Jean turns, after he's taken in the intimate tables, the tuxedoed waiter staff, the absolute _richness_ of this place, and he can feel the wrinkles in his shirt burning against his skin.

There's one of these waiter penguins at the front, this one with bright green eyes whose tone is polite but whose demeanor says that Jean does _not_ belong here.

"Do you have a reservation?"

Jean doesn't have a voice for  moment. His mouth opens, and then closes.

"This is 104, right?" he manages to get out.

The waiter looks scornful, "Yes."

Jean swallows.

"Sorry, uh, is...Marco working tonight?"

There's a couple beside him in the vestibule, and Jean hears one of them cover up a laugh with a cough. The waiter blinks like he's trying not to roll his eyes.

"Yes, Marco Bodt is here, like the _Head Chef_ usually is."

Well slap him in the ass and send him to Oklahoma, that damn jerk was the Head Chef? The whole time?

Shit, shit, shit.

"If you don't have a reservation, I'm afraid we don't have any tables available," says Green-eyes, "...For the next few months."

Jean grits his teeth, "Right. Sorry to bother you," he says cuttingly, and then turns on his heels and leaves.

He doesn't remember a time when he was more embarrassed, to be honest. The people on the street still watch him go with a smug sort of satisfaction, like Jean hadgotten what he deserved, being turned away dressed in jeans of all things. The cold luckily stings the flush in his cheeks back into submission.

 _Jokes on you, fuckers_ , Jean thinks, _you're eating my family's produce, so who's the outsider now._

 He doesn't know why, but he walks back a different way, down his usual street, where he goes for the delivery. The night has gone from a dismal, sickening mush of anxiety to a blazing, embarrassing, angry stride. And the worst part is that he won't even get to talk to Marco in the end, anyways. _Chef_ Marco.

Except that the alley is different at night.

Outside, on his usual bench is Marco Bodt.

He doesn't look like he usually does. He looks pale and strained. And he's wearing his grey Chef uniform, unbuttoned at the collar, because he's a chef. A chef. The one in charge. God, does Jean just feel stupid tonight. Stupid enough that he stops short at Marco, Marco and his familiar face that makes Jean's anger dissolve with only a glance.

"Jean?"

Jean can't help but notice the girl sitting beside Marco, the one who's holding his hand.

"Hi, Marco."

 

Marco lets go of Christa and starts towards Jean, the apparition in the alley, like he has appeared because Marco had been wishing...

But no. Things don't actually work like that.

"What are you doing here?"

Christa gets to her feet behind him.

Jean walks up, rubbing his hand through his hair uncomfortably.

"You told me to come visit. So I thought I might. Turns out that this restaurant is more high class than I thought," he gives Marco a strange look, "And that the head chef is sort of famous."

"Oh," says Marco.

He realizes he's wearing his uniform. _Secret's out, Bodt_.

"I'm sorry, Jean, I didn't even think - I thought you'd, like, _tell_ me when you wanted to come..."

Jean shrugs, embarrassed, "Well I know that _now_. Didn't help me a few minutes ago."

Marco watches as Jean really takes in his rumpled jacket, the formal pants, the pair of blue running shoes he wears in the kitchen, tradition be damned.

"Shit," Jean says, a little awed, "You're really the head chef? You must be hella good."

And Marco can't help but laugh. Not the usual laughter he shares with Jean, not the airless, doubled-over laughter. He laughs because if only Jean knew. He laughs because when Jean's here, he doesn't feel that same endless panic. Here he is. Marco's secret muse.

"It's good to see you," Marco says quietly to Jean. He turns to Christa, "Christa, is anyone at the friends and family table tonight?"

"Don't think so," she says carefully.

Marco claps Jean on the shoulder, "Still want something to eat?"

"You kidding?" Jean grins, "I've got to see this."

 

 

Marco sends Jean back to the front because Levi would pitch a fit if he brought him through the kitchen. He returns to the kitchen, sees Erwin talking to Levi and flags him down.

"Erwin!"

The whole kitchen is shocked, to say the least, to see Marco excited. Bert nearly drops his mixing bowl, and Reiner has to shoot out a hand to grab the edge before the contents end up on the floor.

"Marco?"

"I have a friend named Jean Kirschtein, he'll be in the dining room in a moment, could you give him my place at the friends and family table?"

Erwin exchanges a glance with Levi.

"Certainly, Marco. This wouldn't be the same Kirschtein that we buy from, would it?"

Marco nods, "Is the critic here yet?"

"No," Erwin says carefully,

So Marco turns to Levi. He digs into his pockets and comes out with a piece of paper, folded and refolded dozens of times so it's almost falling apart, and holds it up like a trophy.

"I want to try something."

Levi takes the paper, unfolds it carefully, and skims it. He looks up at Marco and considers him for a moment.

"You're sure?"

"No."

Levi stares. Then he looks down at the paper, "Hoover! Get me a bowl of chilies, we've got some chopping to do. Braun, wipe that smirk off your face, Chef'll walk you through the sauce you're about to make."

Marco regards the kitchen, "Let's go."

"Yes, Chef!"

 

Erwin Smith shakes Jean's hand like he's honoured to meet him.

"Your family does great work for us," he says, in front of the waiting customers, "We're honoured to have you here tonight."

Well. That's different.

There's a table in the back, by the kitchen, that's the only empty place in the restaurant. Erwin pulls out the chair for him, and Jean feels absolutely ridiculous.

"You don't have to-"

Erwin holds up a hand, "I'll send Armin over with wine shortly. Sorry for the table location, it's not ideal."

Jean really couldn't care. He can hear the bustle in the kitchen a little, and someone's signing "Don't Stop Me Now" off key. There's no other table in this place he'd rather be.

"It's fine," he tells Erwin, "Really."

Erwin nods, "The Chef has told me he'd like to serve you something particular tonight, sir, if that's alright with you?"

"Uh, yeah?" Jean says. Marco should know what he's doing, right? Erwin nods and heads back to the front, and a second later a younger blond serve shows up with wine.

"Sorry about Eren," he says, when he leans over to pour, "He's a little on edge."

"Who, the guy with the green eyes?"

The waiter nods, "I'm Armin Arlert, by the way. It's nice to meet you," he speaks under his breath, "I've heard good things."

Well, Marco is too damn nice.

When Armin walks away, Jean tries the wine.

Goddam.

Jean's never been a wine person, but that's the best thing from a bottle he's ever tasted.

The table turns out to be perfect. Back here, no one can really see when he unlocks his phone under the table and looks up 104 online like he should have at the beginning. There it is: Chef Marco Bodt, Sous-chef Levi Rivaille-Smith. The reviews go on for miles, from newspapers and magazines that Jean only knows because they're expensive and fancy even though he's never opened one, ever. Two Michelin stars? Jean has to google what that even means, and he can't stop his mouth from hanging open. The restaurants in the world with two Michelin stars are listed on Wikipedia. It's not a long list.

This meal is going to cost Jean a fortune.

Then he searches _Marco Bodt_ and what comes up is amazing. It's unbelievable. Child prodigy. French training. Youngest head chef in generations, two Michelin stars at 22.

And Jean recalls saying _the Head Chefs sounds super boring,_ and Marco going _oh, he's not so bad._

Jean wishes there was a menu he could hide his face behind. You know. Forever.

 

Marco realizes that the anxiety stays at bay if he remembers that he's making this for _Jean_ instead of just for Annie Leonhart. So he keeps reminding himself to show Jean what he's capable of, and that's all the matters. Impress Jean.

Sure, the recipe is never-tested. Sure he's gambling tonight on his team's ability to improvise. Sure, they could all crash and burn and Marco would be the one holding the match that started it all, but hey. The recipe doesn't have asparagus, so Jean can't complain about that.

Christa is so focused on her work, but Jean knows she's just dying to ask him what, exactly happened outside. When he just shook off his panic and smiled when Jean showed up. Marco's glad she can't ask him now, because he has no idea what to say.

 

Erwin comes back into the kitchen when Annie Leonhart has arrived and it seated, and catches Levi's eye.

"She's here," he breathes.

Levi only stands, looking out over the kitchen, and he doesn't react.

"How's the recipe going?"

Levi shrugs, "We'll see."

"Can I be hopeful, at least?"

Levi crosses his arms, "Is that Kirschtein kid still out there?"

"Yes."

"Then you can be hopeful. Whoever he is, he's keeping Marco focused. That's all that matters."

Erwin exhales, "I hope you're right, Levi."

"Of course I'm right. When am I not?"

Erwin turns to go, but stops long enough to brush his thumb across the corner of Levi's jaw. Levi's eyes relax a fraction. Then he's back to business, "Braun, when am I getting that _roux?_ "

"Two minutes, Chef!"

 

 

The plate they put down in front of Jean is not what he expects.

It's not a _lot_ of food, to be honest, but it smells amazing.

"Poached salmon with a green chile _bechamel_ ," Erwin tells him, setting it down. The tray he's holding has another serving, and it immediately goes to a blonde woman sitting in the middle of the restaurant.

Jean has no idea what the hell _bechamel_ is, but hey, there's no asparagus, right?

The first bite takes every other stimuli in the room and silences it. There's only taste, only spice. Texture. And when one central flavour starts to fade, another takes its place. Jean stops chewing. He's never, not ever, tasted something so completely _perfect_ as this.

Maybe Marco is right. It's all about the way something is cooked. Maybe even asparagus.

Then he remembers that Marco made this and he's so completely aware of how he's been sassing a world-class chef about food lately. Well. That should probably stop.

Jean stops himself from moaning around his next bite, but he closes his eyes. When he opens them, the blonde woman across the restaurant is looking at him. She looks down at her food, and then back to him. Like there's a connection there. Sure, he's eating the same thing, he guesses. Then she pulls out a phone and starts typing gently for a moment before picking up her fork again.

When he's done (and it's too soon) Jean is tempted to ask for seconds before he remembers that this meal is going to put a dent in his savings as is, but Armin appears to take his plate.

"The Chef would like to know if you'd be willing to wait until we close to speak with you."

"Uh, sure," Jean says, "When will that be?"

"We close at one."

Jean checks his watch, "I'll stick around."

Armin smiles at him, "Great. I'll let Marco know."

"Wait!" Armin stops, "What about the bill."

"Oh, don't worry," Armin waves it away, "Marco took care of it."

Jean wonder what you say to a Chef who just cooked you the Best Thing Ever, and then paid for it.

He thinks about it while the blonde woman finished her meal, and leaves after speaking to Erwin, without a bill being passed between them. Weirder. Jean watches the tables finish and pay, leaving contentedly, until the restaurant is nearly empty except for a few stragglers.

Marco appears once, from the kitchen, and he winks as he passes Jean's table. An elderly couple near the front of the restaurant smile up at him, and he flushes pleasantly. _Must be complimenting the chef_ , Jean thinks. It makes him feel...warm? Pleased?

 _Proud_ , his head says.

Jean ignores it.

Though he wonders if they were eating Kirschtein produce, which makes him think he's allowed to feel a little bit proud. Just maybe not of Marco. That would be weird, right?

 

It's just after one, when Jean is startled off his phone by the chair across from his being pulled out and the very same Marco collapsing in it.

His hair is disheveled and a little sweaty, his uniform now almost completely undone to show his T-shirt underneath, and he looks absolutely _exhausted_.

"Well," says Marco throwing an arm around the back of the chair and another across the table cloth. His sleeves are rolled up, and Marco has very lovely, freckly forearms.

_No he doesn't, Jean._

Jean looks at him, "You've ruined salmon for me."

Marco looks confused, "What-"

"Now I won't ever be able to eat it again knowing what it can actually taste like."

And Marco's confusion turns into a grin, "So you liked it, then?" he asks shyly.

"Liked it?" Jean rolls his eyes, "I was going to ask for seconds. I was planning on storming into the kitchen and forcing someone to _make_ me seconds. And you paid for me."

"You did almost get turned away from my restaurant after I invited you here myself."

"Still," Jean mumbles, "Thanks."

"Anytime."

Marco puts his elbows on the table and rests his head between them.

Jean is tempted to put a hand on his shoulder, "What is it?"

"I should really be thanking you," Marco mumbles, "You saved me tonight, more than you know."

Jean recoils, "Me?"

"Yeah, you," says Marco, lifting his head so he can look at Jean, "We had a critic here tonight."

"That blonde woman?" Jean guesses.

"Probably, Annie Leonhart was blonde the last time I checked," Marco shrugs, "When you showed up, I was sort of ...freaking out. About it."

"You seemed ok when I walked up."

Marco looks down, "...You helped me calm down."

Jean doesn't believe it, "But you- you're _amazing,_ dude, how could you be so worried about one critic?"

Marco sits back, "I'm really not amazing, Jean. I'm one bad review away..." he stops, "it doesn't matter. But you being here..." he starts going red, and Jean, in response, blushes faster than he can, "It helped. Pretending I was cooking for a friend, not for a critic."

"Oh."

The kitchen door opens, and woman almost as freckled as Marco sticks her head out, "Hey Marco, I was wondering..."she starts, and then theatrically stops, "Oh! Am I interrupting?"

Marco groans, "Ymir, if you wanted to meet him you could have just skipped the intro."

"Less fun that way," she says, but then another head appears over hers. This time it's a very blonde, very muscled head, deaf to her protests.

"So this is him-"

And muscles is interrupted by yet another person, leaning over him, silently. He looks at Jean and gives him a thumbs up.

Then a voice comes from behind them, "If any one of you takes a step out of this kitchen before we are done cleaning I will make you lick it clean, clear?"

And all three of them disappear.

"Are those your-"

"-Friends? Yes."

"...I was going to say co-workers."

"Also yes."

"Wow," Jean says.

Marco stands, "I'm sorry for making you wait, I just wanted to thank you. Before you left."

Jean follows, "I don't mind. Anytime you want to serve me free world-class food, let me know," he gestures to the kitchen, "are you going back in there to clean, too?"

Marco shakes his head, "Nah, Levi sent me home so I can calm down. Might have gotten a little wound up today."

"Oh," Jean says, "I'll walk out to your car with you then. If you want me to."

"I didn't drive here."

"What?"

"I walked."

Jean looks at him, "You walked?"

"It's not far," Marco says innocently.

Jean shrugs, "Whatever, Freckles. You can come with me, then. I'll drive you home."

Marco starts to protest, but Jean holds up a hand, "Least I can do for you buying my dinner."

Marco frowns, "It's really ok...I was, uh, actually going to stop somewhere on my way home."

"Where?"

Marco looks at his feet, "...McDonalds?"

Which shuts Jean up. Because of all the answers, that is the last one he was expecting. Instead, he grins.

"I'll even treat you to a McDonalds run, now come on. No excuses, I'm taking you home."

Marco raises his eyebrows, but Jean forgets to be embarrassed, "Shut up, and let's go."

 

 

Marco makes him drive to a particular McDonalds, the one by the ravine almost out of town, and when they're going through the drive thru the girl at the window waves.

"Hey, Marco."

"Hey, Fiona," he says, ducking down so he can see out of Jean's window.

Then Marco makes him park and asks if he can sit in the truck bed. Jean tells him to go ahead, and sits right next to him as Marco unwraps a burger and digs in like he's starving.

"You know the people here who work the night shift?" Jean asks.

Marco nods and swallows, "I come here a lot."

"You don't say."

He grumbles, "Don't make fun. When you cook all day sometimes the last thing you want to do is go home and make dinner. Besides," he takes a long drag from his milkshake, "I like McDonalds. We used to come here on the way to soccer practice when I was a kid."

Jean can't argue with nostalgia.

"We did, too. Only it was baseball," he replies.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm a third baseman."

"Keeper," Marco says.

"Cool."

Jean eats a couple fries and lets Marco finish the one burger and start on another.

"How are you not a million pounds?" he says.

Marco looks offended, "Excuse you. I lose a lot of weight in the kitchen. A night like tonight I probably went down three pounds."

Jean baulks, "What?"

"It's _stressful_. Everything has to be perfect, always the right temperature, plated, and delivered at the same time," he says, "it's not easy."

"No, it doesn't seem like it. I bet you go home and crash."

Marco shrugs, "Don't sleep a lot."

"So those early mornings?"

"I'm awake anyways."

"Ah-ha!" Jean laughs, "That's why you always think you're more witty than me. Because I'm still half asleep and you've already been awake for a while."

"Jean," says Marco seriously, "I think I'm more witty than you because I am, in fact, more witty than you."

Jean grumbles, "Full of shit."

"True." Marco reaches over and steals a handful of Jean's fries and Jean just hands over the bag.

"Take them. I think you've ruined all food for me forever."

Marco smiles, "Bah, you're just being nice."

"I'm really not. I wanted those fries. Now they taste like crap," Jean turns to watch the cars passing over the bridge, "...you worried?"

"About the critic?"

"Yeah."

Beside him, shoulder to shoulder, Marco sighs. Jean can feel it. Marco's warm.

"...Right now? I'm trying not to think about it at all."

Jean turns to him, and Marco's eyes are already on him.

"How's that going for you?"

Marco smirks, "Not well."

It takes three heartbeats for Jean to look away. He rests his head against the cabin windows and breathes out into the cold.

 _All the wind in the world is breath_. There's no wind tonight. The light from the store behind them lights up the clouds both of them exhale.

Marco shuffles beside him and Jean grabs his milkshake out of his hands.

"Hey!"

"At least you didn't ruin milkshakes," says Jean, "They still taste ok."

"That was mine."

"I paid for it."

"You know how much dinner costs at 104?"

"Probably more than all the vegetables you buy in a week," Jean offers.

"Your vegetables? Hardly," Marco scoffs, and Jean pretends like he's been shot.

"How could you? You come into _my truck_ and eat _my french fries_ -"

Marco laughs and laughs, holding his fingers out like a gun and pretending to shot Jean in the chest. Jean mimics the impact and slumps back into the corner of the bed.

"Dork," says Marco fondly.

The affection doesn't go unnoticed.

"Just you wait, Freckles. I'll prove to you one day that I, Jean Kirschtein, possess far more wit than you ever could," Jean puffs up his chest proudly, and Marco takes the chance to toss one of his crushed up burger wrappers at it.

"We'll see, blondie."

Jean laughs. He laughs and wants to keep laughing, wants to sit here with Marco forever and steal french fries and comebacks. At least until the sun comes up. Marco watches him laugh, playing with the milkshake straw absently and shaking his head like Jean is just too ridiculous to handle.

Jean wants to lean forward and just skim the skin where Marco's jaw turns into Marco's neck, because he's so sure it would be warm. And in that space he'd whisper what an amazing talent Marco had, that everything but taste stops in the wake of his food. It becomes an urge, and Jean chokes it down, where it stays, not to be acted upon.

Instead, he climbs to his feet, turns to look over the ravine and shouts, "Marco Bodt is the best chef in the world!" Out into the darkness, like he's drunk and a teenager again.

"Oh my God," Marco desperately tugs at Jean's shirt, "Sit down! Jean, _stop_!"

But when Jean looks down, Marco is grinning. And when they get back into the truck, Marco steals his Jean's phone and inputs his number.

"Now you can text me when you want to come back, ok? No more surprises."

" _When_ I come back?" Jean asks.

Marco smiles and settles against the truck window.

"Yeah. _When_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: is taking someone to an annual staff party a date? And will Connie and Sasha ever appear in this story?!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's snowing and Marco's friends are sure that he's in love. He thinks they're wrong. And yet, he still thinks Jean looks damn sexy in that jacket, picking him up on the way to a staff party that is definitely not a date. Definitely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very sorry. It's been over a week without an update, and I am ashamed. "Start writing fanfiction again, Shaw! It'll be fun! You'll update so often, people won't have to wait!" And then I get to this chapter and I think that it will be a grand old time writing a party scene until I realize I suck at dialogue involving a group of people. Like, you have to make sure they are all accounted for all the time, it's exhausting, like herding kittens. Adorable, maybe, but exhausting. And what do I have to show for it? Certainly over 10k words, but I make no promises on how good they are. Seriously, let's just get this chapter out there and move on to better things. Like the next chapter I promise by the end of the week. 
> 
> To everyone who is leaving comments and kudos, thank you a million, billion times, it's so nice of you. I realize that, while I intended to respond to each comment, I think you might appreciate it more if I just wrote new chapters instead, so that is my plan. But they don't go unnoticed! Thank you for the support! 
> 
> But I would like to say, for everyone who has mentioned it: I am very, very sorry. But I take my 'slow build' stories very seriously. When I say slow...I mean very slow. I'm sorry.
> 
> They will kiss eventually, just you wait.
> 
> Come visit my tumblr: http://oxfordandmischief.tumblr.com/

It's Armin who texts him first the next day, when Marco's already awake and watching _Magic School Bus_ reruns with a bowl of Lucky Charms, because he's an adult after all. World Class Chef, over here. Avoiding his problems by drowning them in sugar and children's television, that's Marco Bodt's style.

 **From: Armin > **Review's in paper today just found out. Eren's reading it first, will let you know.

So Marco turns off his phone.

He thinks about turning it on again in case Jean texts, but when it's obvious that Armin's only the first in a string of co-worker updates on Marco's fate, written in the culinary section of the Times for all to see, he leaves it off. He doesn't get the paper for exactly this reason.

In fact, he'd been having a brilliant go of not thinking about it at all. The _Magic School Bus_ does that, you know, just sucks you right in with its science and bad puns. Also, Marco's got plenty to think about involving Jean Kirschtein, who's invasion into Marco's thoughts is becoming more of a hindrance by the second. Him and his old truck and his strange hair and elusive smile.

Damn Jean Kirschtein.

The Lucky Charms aren't sitting well. The inevitable will come. And, truth be told, he's being very blasé about the whole fact his career may very well be riding on a few hundred words he's refusing to read.

But he decides to suck it up and get it over with.

Feeling remarkably numb, Marco drives to work early and walks in to find Levi on his hands and knees behind one of the convection ovens that's been pulled out from the wall, scrubbing angrily. He doesn't even notice Marco, but his presence signifies that Erwin is upstairs in his office.

Marco knocks on the door, even though it's open. Erwin looks up from the paper.

"Good morning, Marco, I thought you might be in early."

"Both of you are pretty early, yourselves," Marco says, taking a seat.

"Levi demanded we come in today before anyone else because he says he witnessed an olive getting accidently flung behind one of the ovens last night," Erwin rolls his eyes, "and he could barely sleep thinking about it."

"One day Levi will embrace his true calling and join the Health Inspection Office."

Erwin shudders, "God, let's hope that never happens. There'll be no restaurants left open in the province, let alone the city. And he'd get so wound up he'd probably break into the worst of them at night and clean them himself."

Well, he's not wrong, Marco thinks.

Erwin regards his carefully, "But you're here because of the review, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Have you read it?"

When Marco shakes his head, he's handed the newspaper from across the desk. His hands may be shaking when he takes it, just a little. The article is down the side of the page, under a picture of Annie's taciturn face. How she can look so nonchalant, despite her very influential position as Marco's judge and jury, he can't say.

It begins with the usual bit about how he's gone downhill since he got the second star about a year ago, blah blah, _prodigy fading,_ the anxiety-inducing fears Marco deals with every day, you know. The basics. But then there's a bit at the bottom, and Marco holds the page closer to make sure he's reading this right.

            _Regardless of the past, last night's selection by the Chef was surprisingly refreshing after the usual overdone menu. It seems as though potential to rise again is stirring in the             kitchens of 104. It will take work to reclaim the previous standard we came to expect from Marco Bodt and Levi Rivaille-Smith, but there was something subtly promising in the simplicity and elegance of the meal presented to me yesterday_.

A breath escapes Marco. That could have been much, much worse.

"Relieved?" Erwin remarks.

Marco hands the paper back, " I suppose this means I won't be fired today?"

His boss frowns, "You wouldn't be fired regardless of what the review said, Marco. I've said it before, we're not going to let you go because of a few bad reviews - and that is hardly a _bad_ review, I should note," he folds his hands together on the desk. "When I realized I was not going to be going back into the kitchen as a chef, and Levi refused to take the job, he specifically asked for you."

Marco drops his head.

"That's a compliment, Marco. A massive compliment. And not many of your fame would be willing to take a job on the condition Levi would be working as a mentor, not an underling."

"Levi is too experienced to be a Sous Chef," Marco mumbles, "It makes sense to learn from him-"

"-And this is why we chose you, and why we're going to _keep_ you. As long as you want to stay."

Marco meets his eyes, "Even if my failure loses us a star?"

Erwin stares back, "We have our team. We stick with them, regardless of difficulties, until the problem is solved. Michelin be damned."

 _Yeah_ , thinks Marco, _fuck Michelin._

Then he remembers that this is not solving all of his problems, and he probably shouldn't be fucking Michelin, because he wouldn't be very famous without them.

"...thanks," he tells Erwin quietly.

"Anytime. But before we go over next week's changes, could you turn your phone back on, I've gotten a dozen texts from the rest of my kitchen staff saying you're probably dead in a ditch because you aren't responding."

"It's hardly been an hour," Marco grumbles, "What about privacy, does no one care about that anymore?"

"In our restaurant? Hardly."

But Marco's search of his pockets has come up empty, "It's in the car."

Erwin waves towards the door, "They won't calm down unless they hear from you, you know how they are. Better bring it in."

Marco turns to go, but before he leaves he hears, "Oh, and Marco. If it will help you out, Jean Kirschtein can have that table anytime he wants it."

Marco spins, "What?"

"Uh huh. Just keep it in mind - whatever you need. And I've even talked Levi into letting you on delivery duty for the rest of the year," he winks, and Marco imagines that he's going to combust with the amount of heat in his cheeks.

"It's not like that."

"Of course."

"It's not."

Damn them all.

Erwin leans back in his chair, "You should invite him to the Christmas party."

Marco reminds himself that Erwin is his boss and it's not professional to flip off your boss as you walk away from their office.

 

 

And because Erwin is not known for having the best ideas - _I'm going to marry the most prickly person I can find! I'm going to staff a restaurant with crazy people and a half baked prodigy!_ -Marco thinks he won't hear that suggestion again. Jean? At the 104 Iron Chef Cook-off Christmas Extravaganza? That's like a date, right? Wouldn't that be like a date? And that is just. Just.

Just...

Except Marco is entirely wrong about the likelihood of hearing about it again.

Despite assuring his friends via text he is alive and well and not, in fact, dead in a ditch, they arrive and instantly flock to him because the rumor mill has started to go dry and Marco's the juiciest thing there is right now.

Reiner and Bert arrive first, and Levi instantly storms over to Reiner before he can reach Marco.

"Braun!" he snaps, and Reiner stops dead in his tracks. Levi holds up the olive accusingly, still in his cleaning gear, "Can I speak to you the in the dining room?"

Reiner gives Marco a look, but follows after Levi. Before Bert can come over, the door opens again, and Christa rushes in with Ymir just behind her, and sprints to Marco.

"Are we going to talk about this?" she demands immediately.

"Good morning, Christa."

"No," she waves a finger, "Don't _good morning_ me, Bodt. Tell me how one guy shows up and you go from panic-McAnxiety-pants to potential-driven Chef of the night with a single look."

"McAnxiety-pants?"

Ymir steps in, "She's been working on it all morning. But seriously, spill. Whoever that guy was, he was _hot_ , Freckles."

"Much better than the last two crushes you've had," Eren scoffs, leading Mikasa and Armin into the kitchen, but everyone shoots him a look. Despite having found out from a friend about a potential critic going to 104 and then sneaking to the newspaper offices and formulating a plan involving costumes and a great deal of subterfuge to confirm Annie's arrival, Eren was still docked pay and told he couldn't play Nancy Drew when he was supposed to be working.

"He's not a _crush_ , dammit! Why does no one believe me!" Marco says.

"Were you actually _here_ last night? That was you, right?" Christa says, "And not some love-struck doppelganger?"

Marco groans and hides his hands behind his face.

"You should invite him to the Christmas Party," comes a voice, and everyone turns to Mikasa, of all people, as she hangs up her coat.

"Not you, too."

"That's a great idea!" Ymir latches on to the idea, "He can be the third judge!"

There's a pause as Levi's angry voice reaches Category Four level, and the kitchen flinches as a collective.

"What did Reiner do?" Bert whispers.

Marco tries to take this opportunity to escape, but Armin is suddenly there.

"He flung an olive behind the oven."

Ymir flinches, "Bad move."

"Don't change the subject," Christa warns.

"Yeah, I think it would be nice to meet him at the party," Armin adds.

"He helped you out last night, Marco, it would be a way to thank him," Bert adds calmly.

"I'm not bringing him!" Marco all but screeches, "Because I do not have a crush on him, and I'm not inviting him on a date!"

Armin shares a look with Christa, " _Is_ that a date?"

"Seems like you've been thinking about it, " Ymir says slyly.

 "That's not-" Marco starts, feeling himself heat up once again, "Guys, stop," he whines. He says it, but there's something thrilling and terrifying about the consideration of _Jean_ plus _dating_. That same feeling when your friends have forced you on a rollercoaster and your climbing the hill all strapped in and asking yourself, _how did I get here, how did I get here, shit._

But you're in for the ride, anyways, no turning back. Marco knows that feeling well, because his friends love rollercoasters _and_ ignoring his protests, and the chance to put those two things together always seems to happen every summer.

"It seems to me like we have a difference in opinions," Armin says, always the voice of reason, "Marco believes he and this guy are completely platonic, we believe that there's something clearly romantic, judging from Marco's inability to keep himself from blushing every time we mention it."

Christa smacks Marco across the shoulder, "And his incredible influence over Marco, hello."

"So, we need an experiment to test which situation is the correct one."

"Armin be on my side for once," Marco whines.

They surround him like sharks. He can't back up because of the counter digging into his lower back, and he considers the window, but he knows that Mikasa would have him pinned way before he could hope to escape.

"Come on, guys," he begs, "Please no."

But Christa is already reaching into his apron and retrieving his phone, forcing it into his hands.

" _Call him_."

 

The first snow of the year comes down on the Kirschtein farm overnight, and when Jean wakes up it's still going. From the kitchen he can see across the yard, where the greenhouses are glowing warmly, safe and sound, from the cold that has Jean burrowing farther into his hoodie and wishing he'd put on socks and pants. The kitchen floor is absolutely icy.

Jean groggily grabs a glass of orange juice and watches as his father and Thomas emerge from the barn in winter boots and flannel jackets, heading to the greenhouses, talking. Finally, his father is back to full capacity. For now.

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he answers it without thinking, still half asleep. Still wishing he was all asleep.

"Hello?"

"Holy fuck!" Someone screams, and then comes a slightly more muffled "He picked up, Connie!"

Jean regrets this, oh man, he should have been paying more attention.

"Jean Kirschtein, you shithead, _finally_ you pick up your phone, you haven't responded in over a month what is wrong with you!"

"Hi, Sasha," he says weakly.

The phone grumbles and the sounds of it changing hands has Jean pulling it away from his ear.

"Jean! You're still alive?"

"Hi, Connie."

" _Put it on speaker,"_ comes Sasha from the background, " _No, the other button."_

It takes a moment, then comes the background of ambient noise,"You owe us so bad, man, leaving us hanging all that time, we've been seriously worried."

"Yeah, well," Jean mumbles, "It's been busy."

"Sure," Connie says dryly, "Too busy to reply to our snap chats, but not too busy to look at them."

"...Sorry."

He imagines them both softening, "We get it," Sasha says kindly, "We just missed you a whole lot."

"Yeah? What's been happening with the nightmare duo these days, anyways?"

"Actually!" she says, suddenly bright again, "We've got great news-"

"-Fantastic news-"

"-Amazing, wonderful, _crazy_ news! Guess who's coming to Trost?"

Jean stops, "No."

"Yes! Connie and I got jobs teaching at a dojo in the city! We're moving in a few days!"

"Guys, that's great," Jean says, and he means it. Maybe his tone is a little sad, but who can tell, really?

"So listen," Connie goes on, "There's another position open. We talked to our new boss..."

"And she says that she's open to interviewing you for it. If you're interested."

"-And you'd have it right away, seriously, man," Connie cuts in, "You're way better than both of us, she'd love you. Anyone who really digs karate she immediately likes, it's crazy."

Jean look out at the greenhouses, where his father has disappeared inside, and he just _wants_. He wants to say yes, oh God, does he want to say _right away, let's go, give me the address._

"...I don't know if I can right now."

The enthusiasm on the other side of the line gets audibly lower.

"Is it your dad?" Sasha asks quietly, which means she's really serious. Sasha is never quiet.

Jean runs his finger through the puddle of condensation left from his juice glass, "...yeah."

"Shit, man," Connie says, empathetically.

"Whatever," Jean says quickly, "It's fine."

"But you, you know, would take the job? If you could?"

 _In a heartbeat_.

"You're not avoiding us?"

"Hell, no," Jean says, not unkindly, "But leaving the farm right now..."

"It wouldn't be full time," Sasha adds, "I'm sure we'd work around your schedule."

"Just think about it, alright?" Connie says for them both.

"...I will."

"And when we come into town, we're going dancing, dude. Like old times."

Jean closes his eyes, "Yeah. Like old times."

The kitchen seems much quieter when he hangs up. Jean rubs one foot along the other, trying to warm them. The snow is actually really pretty, if, you know, it weren't so cold. But Jean can't really change that. He'd take the job if his dad weren't so unstable right now, if the farm could sustain itself. He'd let himself really _like_ Marco the way he sometimes feels he's starting to...

If things weren't the way they are.

His phone rings again, and this time Jean checks. And speaking of the devil-

"Jean?" Comes the voice.

"Marco?"

"Hi," Marco says weakly on the other side, "Am I bothering you?"

"...No?"

"You're sure I'm not catching you at a bad time? I could call later?"

Marco sounds a little strained, and his comment is immediately followed by some strange hissing noises in the background, so Jean gives his kitchen the look he'd be giving Marco in person. The kitchen's response is to remain cold and silent. The fridge starts groaning.

"Are _you_ alright?"

"I'm-I'm just fine," Marco sounds like he follows this up by whispering another few words out of reach of his phone's microphone, but Jean doesn't mention it.

Jean leans against the counter, "Did the review come in?"

"Uh, yeah."

"And?"

"Oh, it was alright. I mean, I'm still failing their expectations, but apparently last night was ok. At least they aren't coming after me with pitchforks or anything. Threatening to burn down my restaurant..."

Well. Marco's totally fine. Totally. He's not rambling or anything, because that would be _weird._

"So listen," Marco goes on, "There's this Christmas party..."

Outside, Jean's father emerges from the greenhouses, and Jean moves out of sight of the window.

"...we do it every year with the 104 staff, it's like Iron Chef - do you know that show? - we hold our own version, competition, _thing_ and, uh, we have judges and teams and stuff..."

Oh good Marco's really nervous, like he's so unsure of himself, and that may be what Marco says he feels all the time, but he sure doesn't show it so outright. At least, not to Jean.

Jean has this crazy notion that Marco is flustered because he's asking him out.

Marco. Is. Asking. Him. Out.

"...we need another judge, and everyone here wants to invite you this year," Marco finishes in a rush, "If, you know, you wanted to?"

Behind Marco someone says, _cop out_ really softly, that Jean isn't sure he heard it right. Not a date, then.

He tries to tell himself it's not disappointment pulling him down right now.

"You want me to judge a cooking contest?"

"Yeah?"

"I have absolutely no experience. Like, at all."

"That's alright!" Marco rushes in, "Levi and Erwin judge, too, we are just always looking for a third party. Unbiased, you know."

Jean considers spending the night with Marco's friends and being allowed to try whatever crazy food he was served. Spending hours with Marco. Without work in the way.

There's some appeal to that.

"Wait, are you cooking?"

Marco sighs, "No. I've been forbidden to participate as anything other than host because I was deemed an 'unfair advantage' to a team."

 Jean chuckles, " Why not?"

"Oh," Marco sounds surprised, "Great. Great! I'll, uh, text you the times and stuff alright?"

"Sure, dude."

"I'll see you later, then?"

"Bright and fucking early," Jean tells him.

"Ok....ok, later."

Jean doesn't get a chance to say goodbye before the line disconnects.

 

After Jean gets into proper clothes, he gets another message from Marco, this time typed.

 **From: Marco >** We need a codeword for when my friends have forced me into a phone call and are hanging on my every word.

 **From: Jean >>** ah, I thought you sounded a little off

 **From: Marco >** Feel free to back out of this, no judgment

 **From: Jean >>** And miss your hosting? No chance

 **From: Marco >** Kill me now.

 **From: Jean >>**  then who's going to host :P

 **From: Marco >** don't encourage them. I need you to be apathetic about this. Drown their spirits

 **From: Jean >>** Marco Bodt: killer of Christmas Parties

 **From: Marco >** You're damn right. Carpool?

 

And that's how Jean finds himself on the first weekend in December standing in front of his mirror bemoaning the fact he never asked what to wear, with about six minutes left before he _really_ needs to pick up Marco or risk being late.

His dad knocks, "Jean? Having problems?"

"Yes," he groans, "Dammit."

"You shouldn't worry so much, it's just your friends."

"I don't really _know_ most of them," Jean says, exasperated, "I wish-"

_I wish mom were here._

"-that this was clean," he finishes lamely, holding up one of his nicer shirts, and his father doesn't even notice the pause.

"Let me see it," his dad says, and then when he holds it up for an inspection his face breaks into a smile, "You're right, how did you even manage to get a piece of clothing so covered in grime, did you roll in a puddle of slime or something?"

Jean rips it back, "Not helping."

"You'll be fine. Who cares if you're a little over or underdressed," his father checks his watch, "What they will care about is if you're late."

"Fuck it," Jean mumbles, and grabs one of the only clean flannel shirts he owns, hastily doing up the buttons wrong.

His father laughs, as he goes out the door, "Have fun!"

 

 

Marco doesn't wait for Jean to get out of the car, he starts down his walkway as soon as Jean pulls up in his truck.

In the driver's seat Jean's in his leather jacket and a flannel shirt, with a pair of gloves tossed beside him. He looks like some hip country boy who'd know how to fix classic cars and ride a horse, both just as easily. Like he knows hard work and listens to NPR at the same time. He's even got stubble across his jaw line, and his hair's in disarray.

He looks damn sexy.

"I keep forgetting how cool your house is," Jean says by way of greeting, sliding his eyes over to Marco as he pulls himself into the truck, "Sorry I'm late. Wardrobe malfunction."

Marco grins, "I can tell. Forget something?" he says, rubbing his hands along his own cheeks.

Jean reaches up, and his eyes go wide, "Shit! And my dad didn't even mention it!"

Marco pulls off his own gloves to do up his seatbelt, "Just say it's intentional."

"No one's going to believe it."

"Ah, whatever," Marco shrugs, "It looks good anyways."

Realizing this may be crossing some boundaries, Marco turns to Jean. He's blushing, even though he's trying to hide it with a smooth shoulder check.

"My house is not that cool," Marco says, to cover his tracks, "Turn left at the end of the street."

"Pff," Jean scoffs, "Right. You've got more windows than walls, and it's built off the freaking ravine."

"It's not as nice inside."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you're a bad judge of character. I'm an exceptionally honest person."

"Right," Jean deadpans, "And I'm a famous chef."

"Really? Maybe you should be on a team tonight. It's a left at the next lights."

Jean grumbles, "Alright, alright. Next time I forget to shave, though, I'm doing it at your place, and then we'll see who's right."

The imagine of Jean in Marco's bathroom, shirtless and shaving, pops into Marco's head and it's suddenly the most wonderful thought Marco can imagine. Very domestic.

_...Or not. Let's not cross anymore lines, Bodt. Maybe you should have carpooled the other way around, so you're the one not drinking, or this whole inappropriate thoughts thing may get out of hand._

Marco fiddles with his gloves, "Can I be honest?"

"Hoping you have been all along, right about now, or you're going to drop some crazy truth bomb on me. You are a chef for real, right?"

Marco swats him in the arm. and Jean flinches.

"We weren't well off growing up. It's a nice sort of change."

Jean sobers, "Yeah?" he prompts quietly.

"Yeah. Really nice to give my mom a nice house, too, back home."

"So you admit it's a nice house," Jean says sneakily.

"Jean, I'm having a heart to heart with you right now, stop interrupting."

"Sorry."

Marco smiles, "I'm only half kidding. Just keep going on this street to the end, then turn right."

Jean nods, and is quiet for a moment. Marco watches the houses. It starts to snow, just barely.

"...What about your dad?"

"Hmm?" Marco asks, turning back.

"You said that you gave your mom a nice house, but what about your dad?"

"Oh. He left."

Jean looks over suddenly, at Marco's easy tone.

"Eyes on the road, Jean!"

Jean swerves a little, back into his lane.

"Sorry! I was surprised!"

"Surprised?"

"You say it like it's nothing."

Marco shrugs, "I was nine. I've had time to adjust. It's easier now, I get paid well, and my mom doesn't have to worry as much about all the money stuff."

"Shit," Jean breathes, "That sounds tough."

"Growing up it was a little difficult sometimes. My sister was born right after he left and my mom had to work a lot of hours, typical stuff for single parent families?"Marco suddenly sighs, "Merry Christmas, right? Talking to you about depressing personal history on the way to a party, very festive, I'm sorry-"

"Don't apologize," Jean cuts in, "Talk away. I don't mind."

Jean's face has gone sad, though his eyes don't leave the road, not for a second.

"...Jean?"

"What?"

"You look upset."

Jean shakes himself out of it, "What? No. No, just...I understand. When you need to talk about something. About, like. About all the tough stuff."

Marco watches the snow again.

"...Thanks."

"I'm sorry it wasn't easy for you. Or your mom."

Marco smiles sadly, "Thanks. But you don't have to apologize for my past. I turned out ok, right?"

"Well..."

"I swear to God, Kirschtein, we are having a moment!" Marco crumples into his seat, moping dramatically, "Jerk."

"Hey, I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"...No, not really."

Jean may be joking, but Marco can tell there's something still a little off.

"Stuff like that, though. You get through it, somehow."

"Sometimes it takes longer than you expect," Jean mumbles.

And before Marco can ask what he means, they're practically at the house, "It's this street here - 57. The house with the red SUV."

Jean parallels on the street, and Marco hands him his gloves with a sad smile.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Jean slips them on and shrugs, "I'm always right as rain, Bodt."

"Ready for this?"

"Do I need to prepare myself for a mob or something?"

Marco only raises his eyebrows, "Something like that."

 

 

The door is opened by a short, thirty-something man who looks like he's in the habit of being perpetually bored.

"Bodt," says the man by way of greeting.

" Levi. This is Jean Kirschtein," Marco says, leading Jean into the house.

"Thank for having me-" Jean starts but Levi holds up a hand.

"Don't thank me. The fact that Erwin talks me into this every year is a wonder in itself," he says, leading them through the entry way. Jean can hear, in the distance, the scruffy sound of old music, trumpet and voices  gravelly, like it's being played on a record player.

"Marco's here," Levi calls out when they approach the living room. There's an electric fireplace against the wall with a Christmas tree beside it,  the only decorations Jean can see. A sectional couch curves its way around the room. Everything is spotlessly, unrealistically clean. Jean wonders if he should even be here, with the dirt from the farm he inevitably brings with him everywhere.

"Marco!" says a voice, and Jean recoils as a freckled woman jumps over the couch and embraces Marco with enough force he has to take a step back, almost knocking into Jean.

"Hi, Ymir," Marco says weakly.

Ymir looks over Marco's shoulder at Jean and breaks into a wider smile.

"Well, well, well," she says, "If you haven't brought along the hottie with a body."

Jean can feel himself going red.

"Ymir, don't objectify him," says another voice, and Ymir peels herself off Marco so a smaller, blonder woman can hug him at a more gentle pace.

Jean recognizes her as the woman from the alley. The one holding hands with Marco.

"Jean, this is Christa," says Marco, "Ymir's fiancé."

Well, Jean wasn't expecting that. He also isn't expecting the relief from the affirmation that the hand holding was completely platonic, then. And it's definite relief, because Christa is adorable. Serious competition.

She rolls her eyes, "One day we'll get married and then they'll have to change our introduction."

"At least you won't have to worry about catering at the wedding," Jean offers, and she smiles at him grandly.

"You and Marco must get along well, you've got the same bad sense of humor."

Jean immediately likes her.

Erwin appears next, coming in from another room, "Good to see you, Jean. Something to drink?"

"Uh, just water? Please?" Jean says, conscious of Levi looking at him curiously. Calculatingly.

Erwin nods, "Of course." As he passes Levi he puts a reassuring hand on the small of Levi's back, and Jean realizes that Levi's hyphenated last name must be one-half Erwin's.

Marco taps him on the arm, and gestures to the couches.

"This is our serving crew, who you've probably met," Marco says, pointing them out, "Eren, Armin, and Mikasa."

Eren offers a scowl, Armin a smile, and Mikasa, who is gorgeous, gives him a silent nod from where she's inspecting CDs.

"Hi," Jean says.

"What are your feelings on Frank Sinatra?" Armin asks, "We're trying to change the music."

"But everyone has bad taste," Mikasa says simply, "And I'm not letting them near the stereo until they come up with something half decent."

Jean rubs his neck, "Sinatra? I could take him or leave him, I guess."

"Better than Broadway, which is what Reiner would chose if he ever show up."

Armin and Eren launch into a discussion about someone named Reiner's taste in show tunes, and at the mention of them, Mikasa takes a step closer to the stereo.

Ymir pops up again, now with a glass of wine, "I'm glad we _finally_ get to meet you, Jean," she purrs, "After everything Marco's said about you."

Jean casts a sidelong glance at Marco, "Yeah?" Marco looks a little panicked.

"You've been very influential-"

She's cut off by the doorbell.

"That's the others!" Marco says loudly, "Ymir, go answer the door."

"I don't live here."

"Help Levi out, come on. Be nice."

Ymir rolls her eyes, but she goes anyways.

"She's a little far into her cups," whispers Christa to Jean, "Don't pay her too much attention."

And Jean feels a little better...except that Christa has a strange sort of intrigued light in her eyes, watching Jean. There's a level of manic energy and high-caliber professionals about these people, which is unnerving. Jean is tempted to step a little closer to Marco, before the glances turn purely predatory.

"Don't listen to anything these people say," Marco says to Jean when Christa is called away by Eren, "Ninety percent of the time they're trying to make me look bad."

"And the other ten?"

"That's when they're in the kitchen with me, and then they're actually paid to _not_ make me look bad."

From the doorway comes a loud, booming laugh, and then Ymir leads two men into the room. Jean suddenly feels very slight, because one of them is large and blond and looks like he would fit into a Gladiator outfit just the same as jeans, and behind him comes a tall and looming figure who regards Jean instantly.

"So this is him," says the blond loudly, "You look better in these lights than you did in the restaurant."

"Jean this is Reiner," Marco says, "And his partner Bertholdt."

"Just Bert is fine," Bert says, leaning around Reiner to shake Jean's hand, "It's nice to meet you finally."

"Are you criticizing the restaurant's lighting?" says Erwin, walking up with Jean's water.

"No, sir," says Reiner, "I'm just saying I'm glad I don't work in the dining room, because it's too dim to show off my handsome figure."

Bert snorts into his scarf as he unwinds it, and Reiner gives him a look.

"Bodt," calls Levi from the kitchen, "Enough introductions, come here for a minute."

Marco gives Jean and apologetic look, and Jean hopes he doesn't look as panicked as he feels, because Marco is walking away and leaving him in a circle of people who are intimidating, to say the least, and uncomfortably interested in him, at best.

Luckily, Armin slides up where Marco had been, and from what Jean knows from their previous encounter, Armin's safe.

"So Jean," he begins politely, "Besides working on your family's farm, what else do you do?"

"Uh, actually...martial arts."

The room's interest returns in full force.

"Really," asks Mikasa,"What types?"

"Karate mostly. Goju ryu and shotakan. Some jujustsu," he shrugs, "Usual stuff."

"Are you any good?" sneers Eren, and Jean has no idea what he's done to elicit such wrath.

"I teach it," Jean snaps.

"Wow," says Ymir, taking another sip of her drink, "Are you a black belt?"

Because that's basically the extent of people's knowledge of martial arts, beside roundhouse kicks and punching boards, and it has taken years for Jean to grow out of the habit of rolling his eyes whenever the question is asked. At least now he can answer yes.

"That's amazing," Armin says, and even Reiner and Bert look impressed, though they both slide out of the conversation to get drinks. Eren crosses his arms and sinks into his seat which is too bad, because Jean wants to curl up into a ball on that same couch and become invisible. So much attention. He's not used to it lately.

"I didn't know that," Marco says from the doorway, and Jean is immensely happy he's back.

"You never really asked."

"What a selfish thing to do," Marco smiles.

"It's not as impressive as being a world famous chef; we had better things to talk about."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jean sees Ymir cock her head at Jean and Marco and elbow Christa, who almost spills her drink on the carpet. Levi notices this.

"I am warning you all once again that making a mess of my house will not result in anything pleasant," he drawls, threateningly, and everyone turns to look at Eren.

"What?" he says, defensively.

Mikasa rolls her eyes.

"And," Levi goes on, "the ice cream machine is officially out of bounds for anyone here. Indefinitely."

Eren goes red, "It was one time!"

"And it ended up on my _ceiling_ , Jaeger."

Armin chuckles into his wine. Marco vanishes once again.

"So, Mr. Black Belt," Ymir says, looping her arm through Jean's arm and guiding him to the couch, "I've got some questions for you."

He doesn't mean to actually sit, but he's half pulled down beside her and then instantly sandwiched by Reiner on his other side. There's something about being cornered that makes him want to take a defensive stance and prepare for battle.

Bert sits next to Reiner, "Is this that quiz you were talking about? The one you made up in college?"

"To find out if my roommates were worth hanging out with," Ymir agrees, pulling from her pocket a piece of paper, "Only this time your score is way more important because you're spending time with Marco, and it's my responsibility to help that poor, freckled, bastard."

"Ymir, please tell me you aren't actually interrogating Jean with that quiz," Armin says from his place across the room, "I thought all copies of that were destroyed."

"I tried," Christa says, "But she's been hiding digital copies on my computer under file names like _Tax Return_ and _Shopping List_."

"That's clever," Reiner says, impressed.

Ymir shurgs, "She found the ones in the porn folder, so."

"That is so gay," Reiner says, and Jean is taken aback. Didn't someone mention that Bert was his partner? Did Jean misinterpret something somewhere?

But Bert is rolling his eyes and Christa, who has taken a seat on Ymir's other side, only leans around to say, "Ymir and Reiner are in a constant battle to see who can out _gay_ the other, just ignore them."

"You're her fiancé, right?" Jean tries to ask, but Christ just nods and rolls her eyes along with Bert's.

"Somehow."

Marco pokes his head back into the room, "Not the quiz," he groans.

"Can it, Freckles, it's for your own good."

"Do I get a say?" Jean asks.

Ymir smiles innocently, "Of course not. Now-"

"Oh, for the love of God," Christa says, "At least give him the abridged version, you're going to scare him."

"Fine!" Ymir says, frustrated, "Just the important questions then!" And she focuses back on Jean.

"Star Wars Episode I or Episode VI?"

He blinks. This is...not what he thought was going to happen. So Jean is just going to go along with it.

"Six."

Ymir nods, "Good. That's very important. Best dinosaur?"

Jena shrugs, "Velociraptor. "

"Not a real dinosaur," Armin comments.

"It was in Jurassic Park, and that's good enough for me. Now, Stephen Colbert or Jean Stewart?"

"Both."

"What do these questions even amount to?" Eren cuts in.

"I wouldn't judge them, Eren," Bert says, "They sound pretty relevant to me."

Ymir shushes him, "Final question: what was the last movie you cried during?"

Jean looks around the room at the collection of people watching him, and decides _to hell with it_ he's going to admit his flaws because he's only human for God's sake.

"... _Field of Dreams_."

Beside him, Reiner nods wisely, "Like a true man."

Armin is pretending he's not smirking into his glass while Christa just sighs and puts her head into her hands.

Ymir holds his gaze, "Good. Very good. I call it a pass," she claps him seriously on his shoulder, "Just be gentle with Marco, he's a delicate creature."

"Oi," Marco says, suddenly looming, "Can we not, please, completely ridicule me when I'm not in the room."

"You're back in the room now," Reiner counters.

"Watch it, Braun," Marco warns, "I can choose not to help your team tonight."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Watch me."

Mikasa smiles as she walks over.

"Don't worry," she says, "Nothing's going to get in our way, regardless."

Levi stalks in, "Let's start this damn thing before I change my mind and kick you all out of my house," he glances at Jean, "Come on, Kirschtein, you're with us."

Jean watches Ymir give Christa a kiss on the forehead as he gets up to follow orders, "Love you, babe. But you're going down this year."

"We'll see," Christa sings back.

The kitchen is a miraculous combination of stainless steel and granite, and Jean feels like he'd never feel completely safe around a collection of knives quite so large as this. There's a breakfast counter at one end, where Erwin and Levi have already taken up residence, and Jean assumes the final seat is his - close enough he'll be able to watch the cooking and still be in danger of burns. Exciting.

Marco appears again, now wearing an apron around his waist, and leans next to Jean's chair.

In the kitchen, Mikasa, Christa, and Bert are collected on one side, and Reiner, Armin, and Ymir are on the other. Eren is in the doorway, moping.

"We ready for this?" Reiner says.

"Are you ready to go _down!"_ Ymir taunts.

Which is when Levi crosses his legs and leans back in his chair, "Get going, Bodt, before someone hurts themselves trying to think of witty comebacks."

"Alright," says Marco, standing up straighter, "For our guest judge today, I'll remind everyone of the rules," he nudges Jean in the side.

"Team Reiner vs. Team Mikasa. You have one hour to make three dishes, one of them has to be a dessert, and you have to use the secret ingredients. As usual, the losing team is responsible for the year-end restaurant deep clean next week - except for Eren, who's automatically included because of the ice cream incident last year."

Eren goes to say something, but Levi cuts him off, "Shut up, Jaeger."

With a flourish, Marco dramatically reaches towards a covered silver tray, "Are you ready?" he says, and with a grandiose swoop, removes the lid, "Battle Kraft dinner and marshmallows!" he announces, and his face falls as he realizes what he's just announced, even as the tray is swarmed by his friends.

"Who chose marshmallows?"

Erwin holds up his hands, "We pulled the ingredients from a hat. Sorry."

Reiner almost trips over someone's feet when he spins, arms full of marshmallows, but Bert reaches out to grab his apron at the last second. Jean decides, instantly, that while the kitchen is enormous and grand, it is not meant for seven people.

"Don't help him, Bert," Christa calls out, and Jean raises his eyebrows.

"Only this once," Bert promises. He ducks as someone flings a spatula for Armin over his head.

Marco leans against the counter, grinning at the mayhem already underway.

"What do you have against marshmallows?" Jean asks.

"Hey, you don't like asparagus, right? Don't judge."

"But marshmallows," Jean says incredulously, "They're like, the most unassuming thing ever. They're mostly air."

"Exactly. They do no one any good. And cooking them is a nightmare."

Jean shrugs, "Weirdo," but he gives Marco a sideways glance, trying to keep his face set into a frown and losing the battle.

Marco smiles, and then walks right into the kitchen madness.

Armin's got a skillet going, Christa is chopping something at speeds Jean didn't realize was possible for a human being, and Ymir has already covered herself and a section of the counter in flour. But Marco weaves through it all like a master, like a dancer, turning down the heat on a skillet of butter that's already smoking, and catching a tomato before it falls off the counter after someone elbows it off, and looking over shoulders, curious as to what's begun.

Levi and Erwin are watching calmly over their own glasses of wine, though Levi looks more scornful than anything. He's paying special attention to the mess Ymir is making and narrowing his eyes as it gets worse.

"Looks like Reiner's going to augment the kraft dinner," Marco calls out, "with...truffle oil, truly inspired. And Mikasa is going to be baking, with a pan like that."

"Probably a casserole," Erwin muses.

Levi crosses his arms, "Hopefully something creative, I can't believe I even let that horrible fake powder they call cheese into my house."

Erwin nudges him, "You always appreciate when a challenge has a greater degree of difficulty," he says warmly.

"That's true. I married you, after all."

Erwin only smiles, but Jean gets the feeling Levi is one of those people who you need to _know_ before you can tell when they actually hate something and when they're just maintaining their optimistic personality.

Levi terrifies him.

Marco heads back and forth between the space beside Jean and the kitchen. Jean doesn't know what he'd be doing if it weren't for Marco pointing out what people are chopping and sautéing and melting. Probably staring in complete wonderment reevaluating his definition of 'cooking'. Because he's certainly never done anything this intensive in a kitchen, ever.

When Reiner grabs a bottle of wine and all but dumps it into a pan, shooting up flames instantly, Jean jumps at least a foot in his seat and Marco laughs beside him.

"Where's the paring knife, Armin?"

"Here."

"Oh, there's the spice from last fall, remember? When we started ordering it in for the duck?"Ymir says, offering some to Reiner.

"I remember."

They move around each other like they're used to it. Like the kitchen is always this manic. Maybe it is. What does Jean know? It goes by fast, the ingredients being thrown around, the temperature increasing. Levi gets up at one point to open the sliding down so the breeze can make its way in.

"Mikasa, don't cook those for too long," Christa mentions as she passes, and Mikasa nods and turns down the heat.

"Too bad I can't use the ice cream maker," Reiner calls out suddenly, and Eren, who emerges from the other room where he's been fetching onions from the fruit cellar, scowls.

 "Well I'm _sorry_!"

Marco's back, slightly out of breath, "What happened, anyways?" Jean asks, trying not to watch Marco as he pushes up his sleeves and lets more of his myriad freckles see the light of day on his _nice_ forearms...

"Eren made the damn thing explode," Marco laughs, "By filling it with so much cream it couldn't take it anymore and just, like... _ka-boom!_ " He throws his hands into the gesture, which is stupidly endearing.

"I didn't know!" shrieks Eren, and Mikasa swats him when he yells it right into her ear, cringing.

"Let me focus on this chocolate," she tells him, "Please go and find me the sea salt."

He grumbles, but he leaves.

"And I had the glorious task," Levi adds, "Of having to clean the mess up and replace my ice cream maker."

"It was a wedding gift," Erwin admits "I don't know if we'd used it more than once."

Marco leans closer to Jean, "No one messes with Levi and his cleaning," he whispers, inches from Jean's ear, and Jean realizes Marco's a little _too_ full of wine and excitement.

"Eren also has absolutely no kitchen skills," Marco goes on, "Not like Armin and Mikasa."

Armin salutes with one of his knives, and Jean flinches.

But Marco's eyes are bright and his face is a little flushed, and he turns to the kitchen and yells, "Ten minutes!" and it's like he's on fire. Jean's taken for granted that Marco's element must be the kitchen, and here he is, alive and alight with the energy of it. It's intoxicating to watch, wine aside.

And suddenly there's a box of Kraft Dinner going everywhere, and at least three people nearly scream as raw noodles land in stray pots and in Ymir's flour pile, and on the floor.

Levi nearly growls, but Erwin is laughing and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Careful," he calls out, "Points lost for stray noodles found in a dish!"

There's so much steam, now, and jostling for the oven, and Reiner is suddenly signing the _Lion King_ soundtrack, no matter how many times Bert tells him to stop. There's chili peppers on a chopping block, and bowls of spices being passed around, Jean can smell baking bread and chocolate sauce and something rich and warm like cinnamon in the air.

The team captains have it completely under control, Jean finds. They suddenly are calling for plates, and asking how long something will take, and their voices overlap and crash with the sound of the sink filling with dishes. Then there's white plates with food being piled on, the oven crashing open and closed. Marco yells for the three minute mark. Then the two minute mark.

Someone elbows Bert in the ribs, and he crashes to the floor, but not before Mikasa has grabbed the tray out of his hands to prevent it from falling. Armin is trying to plate something, blowing hair out of his eyes to see.

"Where's my sauce?" Christa yells, and it turns out Ymir has mistaken it for something else.

"Ten seconds!" Marco laughs.

And there's a final mad rush, scrambling to open the fridge and to organize the dishes, and Jean has never smelled anything so good in his life as Marco counts down.

"Time!"

And everyone stops immediately, a few collapsing on the floor in a heap, while Erwin and Levi only sip at their wine like they're used to their staff falling down around them. And they probably are.

"Goddam," Ymir wheezes, "I think that's the fastest dough I've ever done."

"Too bad it will be all for nothing, "Christa says back, calmly, "We've got this one in the bag."

Marco slides up a chair, "Alright. Team Mikasa's first."

There's chairs pulled up from the dining room into the kitchen, and food is passed around. Jean remembers the last time he was in 104, the crazy aesthetic of it all, and he's reminded of it even though he can clearly see kraft dinner noodles on one of his plates.

"What did you decide to do, Mikasa?" Erwin asks.

Mikasa puts his hands behind her back, "The first one's an heirloom tomato casserole, with a parmesan crust. The second's a spicy vichyssoise with toasted garlic, and the dessert," Jean turns to look at the cup of chocolate in front of him, "Is a chocolate-raspberry-mint-marshmallow pudding."

Jean remembers having some good food in his life, he really does. But he doesn't think there's ever been anything quite, _quite_ like this party, where every single thing tastes like...like _amazing_ and _unbelievable_ and _is this even a real thing?_ They don't approach the level of Marco's dinner, but there's only so much with Kraft dinner you can do, right?

His face must look ridiculous, because beside him Marco giggles, and Christa shoots him a wink as he swallows.

Marco holds out a pen, "Want to write down your scores?"

Jena stares, "I have to score this?"

Marco laughs, "That is usually the job of the judge, yes."

"Like, a one to ten thing?"

"Yeah."

"Can I write something better than a ten?" Jean says, seriously, and the kitchen laughs at his earnestness. He blushes.

Erwin has his score card hidden in his lap, "Try to separate the flavours, make sure nothing is amiss in every bite."

Jean tries again, but everything taste like awesome, and he never should have agreed to this.

"I'm going to ruin the scoring, aren't I?" he mumbles.

"Probably," Levi says flatly.

So Jean tries his very best to pretend to be a cynical critic, and ends up having to restrain himself from licking the glass clean of the remnants of dessert.

Levi sits back once the plates have been cleared away, "Next."

Reiner stands this time, "We chose to do a truffle oil and shrimp pasta dish, goat cheese and a balsamic sauce on fresh baked bread, and a marshmallow baked Alaska," he says proudly.

Which is, like, damn. Because they are just as mind-blowingly good and Jean is only now realizing the perks that being friends with chefs brings.

Beside him, Marco closes his eyes as he bits into his dessert, and there's something very intriguing about watching Marco enjoy food. He eats with his whole attention, like every single flavour is there for his pleasure alone, and he's damn well going to focus on each one so as not to ignore their hard work.

Except it's so intriguing that Jean is caught staring.

"What do you think?" Marco asks, as Jean turns away.

"That I've been missing out on good food my whole life."

Marco smirks and snatches Jean's score card away, and then leaves the room with Erwin and Levi to decide to winner. Jean's not surprised he's left with the others. He prefers it, actually.  

"It's cheating to use Ymir's bread baking, we know" Reiner says cockily, with his mouth full of food, "But we had to play dirty this time. I'm not scrubbing behind the fridge ever again if I can help it."

Christa scoffs, "We've got Jean on our side, just wait for it. No one on our team harassed him with questions, after all."

Ymir looks shocked, "Baby, how could you say that?"

"It's war, love. There's no mercy involved."

Ymir latches on to her fiancé and tries to bury her face into her neck, "Come back to me, baby, I'm sorry!"

Christa breaks into laughter unwittingly, "Alright, alright. You're getting flour all over me."

"This is great," Armin is telling Bert, as he eats, "Really, how'd you manage that texture?"

Mikasa breaks a piece of Ymir's bread into pieces and drags it through a bowl of soup. Reiner is trying to hit Bert with raspberries while he talks to Armin, and it seems that the idea of keeping the kitchen clean has been forgotten somewhere between the pile of dishes and the massacre of the countertops.

"At least Marco's made friends with someone who enjoys food," Christa suddenly says, and Jean turns to where she's leaning across the counter from him.

"I don't know anything about it, but I sure as hell enjoy it."

Christa shrugs, "Marco knows enough about food for the both of you. And maybe," she says quietly, "That's exactly what he needs. Someone who's going to be amazed at what he can do, without all the politics getting in the way."

Jean is about to ask her more, but the judges arrive with Marco, and suddenly it's no longer fun and games. Everyone tenses.

"It was very close," Marco says somberly, "But in the end, 104 still has to be cleaned. Sacrifices are needed."

"Marco," whines Ymir, "Stop the agony, just tell us!"

"The winners," he looks at Jean and raises his eyebrows, "By one single vote...Team Mikasa!"

"Oh, motherfucker," Ymir says calmly. Her fiancé breaks into a grin and throws her arms around Ymir's neck, kissing her on the check. Bert rubs a hand across the back of his neck and looks apologetically at Reiner, even though he can't stop his smiling, and Eren sighs in the background because he's stuck with the losers anyways, and Jean almost feels bad.

"Good," Levi says, "Now we know who I'm stuck with next week, and we can focus on my kitchen. Everyone start cleaning, and this time," he eyes them all, "No one pass out on my kitchen floor drunk. Let's not have a repeat of the birthday party fiasco."

Erwin laughs, "And a very Merry Christmas!"

 

 

Marco and Jean leave around two, when the house is clean enough Levi is satisfied and Marco is feeling warm and buzzed enough that he can easily throw an arm around Jean's neck on their way to the truck and continue singing _Oh Holy Night_ loudly and off key without feeling guilty about any of it.

"What did you think?" Marco asks, between versus.

Jean looks over, "About the party?"

"The party, my friends," Marco vaguely waves a hand, "The whole thing."

"The food was spectacular," Jean says, "Your friends scare the shit out of me."

"Why?" Marco drawls," They're fantastic!" He's shivering now, as he climbs into the passenger seat, "Turn on the damn heat, Kirschtein, I'm freezing my ass off here."

Jean shuts his door and Christmas music comes on with the roll of the engine, "Pretty sure last time I saw it, your ass was still attached."

And Jean hasn't been drinking, but Marco thinks he heard that right.

"Looking at my ass, eh, Kirschtein? Be honest," he teases, and Jean instantly clams up and stutters out a denial.

Marco giggles, "I'm just kidding you. If I could I would probably check out my own ass, too. It's obviously damn fine."

"Ok," Jean says, "I know to definitely keep you away from the wine in the future."

"Never keep me away from wine. It's the drink of champions."

"If you throw up in my car, I'm never speaking to you again."

"Boo," Marco says loudly, "Now tell me why my friends scare you."

Jean scratches at his neck, under the scarf, "I mean, one of them looks like he's actively hating the world, right?"

"Levi does hate the world. Except for certain parts," Marco shrugs, "He doesn't count."

"But the others..."

"What?"

"...They all look like they know something I don't and are keeping it a secret from me."

Marco laughs, "Because they probably do. They devour rumors more than they devour food."

"That's a little unnerving."

"Nah," Marco says happily, "They're great. I'm glad you got to meet them," his head sort of lulls towards Jean, "You're pretty great, too. All my great friends together, great, great, great."

Jean doesn't make eye contact, "You're totally wrong about me. But thanks, for letting me come."

Marco laughs again, "No problem. You weren't much of a judge, but I think they all liked you."

Jean doesn't respond, and when Marco turns to look at him he looks...strange.

"Jean?"

Jena is still scratching at his neck, and then suddenly his eyes go wide, he puts on his turn signal and wrenches the truck to the side of the road, just in time to put it in park, nearly fall out of the door, and vomit into the snow bank.

"Jean!"

Marco gets out of the vehicle with only slightly more grace, and crouches beside Jean, who is, for the moment, no longer throwing up. Marco puts a hand on his back, even as he scrambles to take off his scarf.

And that would explain why he was so itchy. There's a lovely looking rash creeping up from his collar.

"Shit," Jean moans, clutching his stomach.

"Shit," Marco echoes, "Jean, you're having an allergic reaction."

"I know."

"You're having an allergic reaction! Oh fuck, I don't have an epi pen, what are we going to do?"

"Calm down," Jean groans, doubling over, "I can breathe."

"I didn't know you were allergic- I would have _said_ something-"

"I didn't know I _was_ allergic to anything!" Jean cries.

"It was probably the shrimp."

"Ugh," Jean moans, grabbing a handful of clean snow and pressing it to his face, "Don't talk about shrimp right now."

"We need to get you to the hospital-" Marco starts, but Jean snaps his gaze to Marco's face.

"No hospitals."

"But Jean-"

"No," he looks at Marco fiercely, pale as he is, "Please, Marco."

Marco back off, eyes wide, "Alright...alright, no hospitals."

Jean looks sad suddenly, "Sorry, I'm not mad at you, I just - I won't go back," he closes his eyes, "not if I can help it."

He turns away, burying the pile of half-digested food with snow, and grabbing a clean handful to melt in his mouth. He doesn't say anything, not as he takes his time getting into the truck, not as he slowly keeps driving towards Marco's place.

Marco doesn't say anything either. He's in no fit condition to drive, otherwise he'd have kicked Jean into the passenger seat himself, black belt or not.

Jean gets paler and Marco stays silent. Outside, the snow clouds have moved away and now the world is white and sharp and angrily cold. But on the country roads they're driving, the stars cut out bits of shadows, enough the fields glow blue. They seem much farther away in the winter, those stars.

"...I spent the last few months in hospitals," Jean says quietly, suddenly, and Marco turns to look at him. His mouth is set in a hard line. The words spark something like fear in Marco. Fear of what Jean will say next.

"My mother," Jean says, and his voice nearly cracks, but holds, "She was sick. Really suddenly, really badly. So my dad and I spent a lot of time with her. In the hospital. And I can't..."

He trails off.

 _Can't go back_.

The cold has sharpened Marco's sobriety some, and he's no longer the giggly fool he thought himself before Jean's allergic reaction.

"She..."

"She died."

Words fall heavily sometimes. In the fake heat of the cabin, they float on the streaming air from the vents and hit the floor with a thick thud, somewhere by Marco's feet.

"How long ago-"

"Three months."

Marco's hand catches and holds on the sleeve of Jean's coat.

"Godammit," he breathes, "Jean, I'm sorry."

"Yeah," whispers Jean, "Goddammit."

 

 

Marco insists Jean come inside so he can dig up some anti-histamines and a glass of water at the very least. Jean, in a very out of character moment, Marco thinks, doesn't win the earlier argument by mentioning how nice the house actually is once he's inside.

And Marco tries not the laugh and cry at the same time when Jean actually does end up shirtless in his bathroom. Only this time he's not shaving, he's investigating the angry-looking rash across his chest.

"It's not that bad, is it?"

Jean shrugs, "Never eating shrimp again. Ever."

Jean sits on the counter and Marco sits on the floor and leans against the bathtub until the drugs start to take effect and Jean finishes approximately a whole litre of water. He makes Marco drink, too, because Marco knows for a fact that wine hangovers are much worse than any other type of hangover - with the exception of tequila. Which he knows because of Reiner. What a jerk.

"It sucks," Jean says after he swallows the pills, "because that meal was damn good."

And they don't talk about much, because one sad guy and one drunk guy don't have much to say when the last topic of conversation is the death of one of their moms, so instead Marco and Jean play twenty questions until Jean looks like he's not going to cry.

And Marco doesn't even care and gives him a damn hug (after he's got his shirt on) before he leaves because what sort of friend doesn't give the other a hug after something like that. Jean smells like the toothpaste Marco lent him along with a new toothbrush, and like warm laundry detergent. His hair against the side of Marco's face is so very, strangely soft and he's so very conscious of it. Conscious of every moment he gets Jean in his arms.  

"Jean?" Marco calls before Jean can climb into the truck.

"Yeah?"

"...I'll see you the day after tomorrow?"

Jean smiles just a little, and the star that's watching that one little part of the world over him must glow ever brighter with the sadness of it, because it breaks Marco's heart to look at him.

"The day after tomorrow," Jean agrees.

Then he's driving away, and Marco is falling asleep and dreaming only of the silences that passed between the two of them tonight. About the bright lights of the bathroom. About red wine and Frank Sinatra, and Jean lying in blue fields of night snow and sleeping there, smiling.

 

 

Jean feels like he's dying, but he tells himself it's the allergic reaction and not his heart collapsing with, like, sadness or something.

He drives home and doesn't think of much but the songs on the radio, and how stupid the fucking reindeer are for judging Rudolph because seriously, think of the awesome things you could do with a light source for a nose.

He drives home and doesn't think of how he ruined a perfectly good night with his problems.

He drives him and doesn't think that he'll walk into his house so late, and find the TV on and the couch empty. He doesn't think about the feeling he'll have when he walks up the stairs and sees the bathroom light on. He doesn't think about what he will do when he finds his father on the floor, surrounded by pills, unmoving.

Because who thinks about things like that, anyways?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a rollercoaster of over-dramatics!  
> What am I doing with my life?
> 
>  
> 
> Next Time: Jean really hates hospitals after all, and a misunderstanding on Marco's part may have disastrous consequences?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Jean is exhausted, Marco panicked, and dancing the most sexually-frustrated activity of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. Once again writing JeanMarco fanfiction when I have a psych test tomorrow and am three modules behind. I'm sorry for this chapter being late, again. I'm starting the last little bit of my summer term, which is the busiest part. By August I should be much more dedicated, so please just bear with me for a little while longer. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for the comments and the kudos! It's so extremely lovely. Thank you 100 million times to queenofhurts, CrystalSkyDrops175, NagisaHazuki, Dorian720Shade, and especially the_original_n_chan who pointed out my mistake with last names in the first three chapters! It was super nice of you guys to take the time to comment, I'm sorry I haven't done individual responses. 
> 
> This chapter was much more fun to write, Marco's starting to realize some stuff, Jean is heavily in denial, and Sasha and Connie finally show up! Hurray! If you're interested in music selections for this chapter, check out "Turn Me On" by the Fray which was the whole dancing scene in musical format. 
> 
> And! If there's anyone who's interested in being a proof-reader, as I am incredibly bad at it, please let me know! It wouldn't take much time, just if someone's bored maybe they wouldn't mind reading over chapters for spelling errors and the like before they're posted? Send me a message over at my tumblr, http://oxfordandmischief.tumblr.com/.
> 
> Also going to mention that there's references to suicide in this chapter, though only briefly, just in case. 
> 
> Enjoy, guys!

It's funny, Jean thinks, because after all the fuss about Marco not taking him to the hospital he ends up in one anyways. Funny, because while he was calling the paramedics his father woke up and insisted all through them getting there and putting him on a stretcher and driving with the sirens on that he hadn't taken any pills. Funny because he hadn't, not after they ran tests and not after they told Jean he must have slipped and gotten a concussion just a few minutes before Jean had found him. Then they went on to ask Jean if he had taken anything for the allergic reaction that was still sort of evident on his skin.

Just hilarious.

It's two in the afternoon and his father's asleep, being carefully monitored and woken up every so often just in case by the nurses. Jean has found a cozy little plastic death trap to sit in for his stay just outside the room. He hasn't slept. He hasn't moved. He has, however, stopped shaking, at least externally. There's been moments when he considers what would have happened if his father had actually taken those pills. If his dad decided that Jean could maybe handle going from one sort-of parent to none at all just like that, and he's angry and scared and he wants to keep shaking so the emotions shake right out of him but he's too damn exhausted to do anything but wallow.

That and finally struggle to his feet to find a vending machine. He's got a couple dollars, so he rests his head against the glass while he decides on the possible nutritious benefit of Skittles over Doritos.

Skittles have fruit juice in them, right?

"Jean?"

There's a voice from somewhere to his left, and by the time Jean responds to it, the tone's changed to one implicitly having tried to get his attention for several minutes.

He looks up and Hannes Vos is standing beside him with a tray of coffee in one hand.

"Hannes?"

Hannes smiles gently, "Hey, long time no see, thought you were having a panic attack or something there for a second. You ok, kid?"

"Yeah," Jean says, straightening, "Yeah, 'm fine."

"What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here? I thought you and Rebecca were still out West."

"She just finished her thesis. And out of the blue she was offered a job back at Trost U, we just moved back a few days ago," he rubs a hand across the back of his neck, "I was going to call your dad today, after I got back. But I offered to bring a friend coffee during his shift, he helped us find a place so quickly."

Jean looks away, "Dad's go a concussion, maybe hold off on that phone call."

Hannes looks worried when Jean looks back up, "He's alright?"

"Yeah, he's fine."

Kirschtein's are always _fine_.

"How long have you been waiting?"

Jean checks his watch, but the numbers aren't really reading like they usually do. So he just sort of shakes his head.

"Damn," Hannes breathes, "Come on, let's sit you down somewhere, you look like you're going to pass out."

"He'll be glad you're back," Jean says, on their way to more plastic chairs. His butt's complaining already, "Not much cheers him up lately, but he'll be glad to see you."

"I know," Hannes says, "He's not doing well, is he?"

Jean shakes his head again.

"I could hear it when we talked on the phone," Hannes says, "Like he was lost."

Jean puts his head back against the cold wall of the hospital. The beeping and the muffled coughing and the damn antiseptic smell of it all are driving him mad, "I thought," he whispers, "I thought he'd taken pills, when I found him last night. Thought he'd try to...you know..."

Hannes rests the coffee in his lap, "Jean. I'm so sorry. I'm his best friend, I should have been around, should have stopped by more after the funeral."

"You were busy. It happens."

"Shouldn't have left you to deal with it all," Hannes mutters, "...Are you managing?"

Jean opens his eyes, "The farm is still standing," he shrugs, "I guess that counts as something. Also, my dad didn't _actually_ try to kill himself yesterday, it was just a misunderstanding, so there you go."

He can't avoid the bitterness in his voice.

"Are you looking for a job, or a dojo, or-"

Jean cuts him off. Hannes is one of the closest people he has in the world, anymore, after years of him being friends with the Kirschteins. But Jean doesn't know if he can handle being around someone who knows him so very, very well. He's afraid they'll see the hairline fractures up and down his facade.

"-I have a job. Keep the farm going, and keep dad going."

Hannes looks sadly at him, resting the coffee in his lap, "You just got out of school, you should be _doing_ something, something exciting."

But Jean is so damn _tired_.

"Shouldn't have to be you taking care of him," Hannes says softly. Tears threaten at Jean's eyes, but he stops them behind closed eyes.

"I'm all he's got," Jean mumbles.

"Not anymore," Hannes stands, "You and him, come to dinner, alright? See our new place," Jean looks up at him, standing there like a responsible adult. Like a parent, "I'm going to ask for my job back on the farm."

Jean's mouth opens, "As the foreman?"

"Maybe it'll help take some of the strain off. _Both_ of you," he adds.

"Mr. Kirschtein?" Says a nurse, coming up to them, "Your dad's awake. We're going to discharge him, he's doing fine."

Jean stands too, "Great."

Hannes pulls one of the coffee cups from the tray, "Figures you'd be helping the one person in this hospital I know, Aaron," he says, handing it over, "This is for helping us find the house."

Aaron the nurse takes it gratefully, "Thanks, man. Been a busy shift so far, it's good to see you." He looks between the two of them, "You friends with the Kirschteins?"

"Of course."

"Maybe you can give them a ride home? Not sure this one's up to it," he says, gesturing with his coffee to Jean, "Especially since I'm pretty sure an ambulance brought them here."

Which Jean totally forgot. No car. Damn.

"Of course I'll drive them. Let's load up Kirschtein Sr. before he hurts himself anymore, shall we?"

 

Jean barely remembers his father groggily getting into Hannes SUV, or the ride home. Hannes has his door open before Jean even registers they've pulled up to the house, and nudges Jean awake.

"Let me deal with your dad, you go and get some rest," he says kindly.

And Jean doesn't have enough energy for bravado, so he does. His room is dark and cool, and Jean strips off his clothes and crawls into bed without them, shivering. But he's asleep before his body heat can warm the sheets, and he dreams of nothing at all.

 

 

Marco thinks that his friendship with Jean Kirschtein has reached that part where all the idiosyncrasies start to leak out one at a time while you gauge whether or not the other person is going to stick with you through them, or ditch you because you are one strange and awkward mess of a person.

So he wonders, really, if he's being too forward by texting Jean before he arrives for the delivery, or if they've reached that point. They did spend a while in the back of Jean's truck acting vaguely like they were drunk, after all. And the party. Which may or may not have been a date, it was ambiguous. He has a starring contest with his phone, and he keeps winning because the screen goes black every ten seconds, and that makes him feel surprisingly smug. 104 is quiet and empty and the alleyway is quiet and empty and cold, so he stays inside, waiting for the sound of the truck. He sits on the floor, tucks his feet around him and sort of hums to himself, drifting in the sort of half-awake stupor he gets instead of sleep. Insomnia's a bitch.

When he hears the truck, he smiles before he even knows it. His coat goes on heavily, he tucks his hands into his pockets, and he goes out to meet Jean.

Only the boy coming out of the truck isn't Jean.

His blonde hair is neither undercut nor darker along his neck, and he's smiling to himself - an indication that this stranger is definitely not a Kirschtein.

The new blonde boy looks up, "You're from 104? I'm here from Kirschtein produce for your delivery."

"Yes, I know," Marco says calmly, though he feels disappointed. Also, where is Jean, because he did say he'd see Marco the day after tomorrow, didn't he?

The new guy doesn't even introduce himself, and it only takes him a few minutes of silence to unload the truck. This isn't the problem. The problem is that whoever he is, he is very professional and efficient (which is very unlike Jean), and Marco can't tell if that means asking about Jean is going to fly.

And if Jean has purposefully switched delivery duty with this guy, then asking about it could get real awkward, real fast.

But then Marco's handing over the money, and the guy is slipping it on to the clipboard and locking the back of the truck, and Marco can't help that the words just slip out.

"Could you tell me, uh, where Jean is today?"

The guy turns, looking surprised, "Jean? Do you know him well?"

Marco shrugs, though he wants to say _yes, yes I do, don't look so surprised, Jean and I are great friends_ , "Yeah, a little."

"He's off today. Spent most of yesterday in the hospital."

Marco's stomach plummets.

"He'll probably be back soon, though," says the new guy, not noticing the dead weight pulling Marco down with his words. He might as well have mentioned that Jean had gotten a haircut or went to a hockey game in the city. All the guy does is wave lazily and climb into the truck with a nonchalant, "Have a nice day," and drive away.

_What?_

This time there's no hesitation, because Marco is going to text Jean first whether or not this is breaking the unwritten status quo of their friendship, because Marco is worried. Jean in the hospital? After what he said last night?

 **To Jean >> **Jean?

 **To Jean >> **Are you alright?

 **To Jean >> **You weren't here for delivery heard you went to the hospital. what happened?

Jean always responds quickly, like he's in the habit of keeping his phone close, but this time nothing comes back Marco's way. He doesn't get a response after he manages a quick hour of sleep on the couch in his office. No response after another barrage of texts when he gets changed for his shift. No response to the call he makes before the dinner rush starts.

Marco feels like he's swallowed a cup of molten metal that's cooling along his throat. Everything about breathing feels heavy.

He remembers what this worry feels like. He remembers it well because when you wake up to it for years, when you sleep with it for years, when it keeps you awake for years and years, even after it goes away, you remember it. When he could barely think but for the constant sensation of worry in his chest. About money. About his father. About his mother.

Now it's about a stupid blond and his stupid shellfish allergy, and _oh fuck what if he died? What if Jean Kirschtein never reads those messages because I listened to his stupid tragic story about why he didn't want to go to the hospital and he died and I never get to even figure out what the fuck I'm feeling towards him?_

There's a total of twenty three unanswered texts to Jean Kirschtein on Marco's phone, and the thought of those unanswered texts living out there in text message purgatory for the rest of time sits so heavily on Marco's mind he burns the hell out of his pan of onions during the dinner rush. The only reason they don't catch on fire is because Christa reaches the pan before Marco's even conscious of his surroundings and dunks the whole thing into the sink.

It's the smoke that brings him back.

"Jesus Christ," Christa says.

Half the kitchen is trying not to pay attention to the near-disaster and the other half doesn't even know what's going on, because smoke? In the kitchen? Probably intentional.

"Thank God Levi's distracted," Christa says, nudging Marco out of the way as she starts heating a new pan, reaching for another onion and slicing, "What's wrong, Marco, you've been out of it all shift."

Marco tries to shake it, but he feels sick.

"I'm sorry, Christa," he mumbles.

"Yeah, I know. Just, like, be sorry about it and pay attention at the same time or you'll burn us all to the ground."

He starts slicing at the cutting board beside her, "...Jean didn't show up today."

"What, is it his day off?"

Marco sighs, "Someone told me he was at the hospital."

"Shit. What happened?"

"I don't know!" Marco's voice is getting higher and more panicked, "I've been texting him all day, but he hasn't responded."

Christa's knife doesn't stop slicing, but he can see the concern on her face, "I hope he's ok."

But then it's his phone that's buzzing in his apron, and Christa catches his surprised glance, "Is that him?"

"I don't know."

She gestures to the door with her knife, "Well go and see!"

"I can't," Marco says, "The rush-"

"Oh, screw the dinner rush. Take your five, I'll cover for you."

 Marco bites his lip, sees Levi still discussing something with Erwin, watches his team run efficiently even as he stands there as capable as a pile of potatoes and then he looks at Christa. She's still working, browning the onions, cheeks flushed and hair escaping from her pony tail in strands across her neck.

"You're the best," he whispers, moving to kiss her head, "You used to be a patisserie, when did you get so good at backing me up?"

"When I realized you were worthless as a chef without someone grabbing burning onions out of your hands," she says dryly, "Now go and see what he said!"

 

Marco's fingers fumble with his apron. He has the presence of mind to grab a coat hanging near the door, and then he's trying to unlock the damn phone with one arm while he tries to shrug it over his shoulders, shocked by the cold air that swarms him. It's Reiner's coat, and it swamps him.

"Jean?"

"Hey," Jean Kirschtein says on the other side of the phone, and Marco deflates with relief. His voice sounds like sandpaper and whisky, like 3 AM.

"Were you texting me?" There's a pause, "23 times?"

Marco lets out a breath, "And a phone call, yeah."

"What's going on?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, 'm fine?"

Marco feels like rolling his eyes or kissing his phone, or press it against his chest and praying, but he doesn't do any of those things. Instead, he chooses to feel a little silly about the intense panic that he looks back on now with his 20/20 hindsight.

"You didn't come to deliver today, and whoever it was told me you were in the hospital."

"Blond guy?"

"Yeah."

"Damn, Thomas," Jean breathes, "Sorry, Marco. I was at the hospital," There's a surge of panic, "For my dad. Even after all my complaining," and the panic fades.

"Is everything ok?"

"Yeah," there's noise like he's moving blankets around. Marco wonders if he's in bed. The mental imagine makes his stomach burn warmly, but that could be residual relief from the knowledge that Jean is not, at the moment, dying, "Knocked himself out, ended up with a concussion," Jean says, "I was there for hours, and by the time I got home all I did was crash. I've been out for a while."

"Like, a whole day?"

Jean must check his clock, because all Marco hears is, "Shit," and then, "Wait, aren't you working?"

"I'm on break."

"Dude," Jean says, "Did I interrupt?"

Marco leans against the wall, "No. When I saw you were calling, I sort of ran outside to take the call."

"Levi's going to kill you."

"He'll live," Marco pulls the coat closer, "I was worried about you."

There's silence on the other end.

"Jean?"

"Sorry. I'm here," There's a breath, "...I didn't hear the phone. I would've responded, you know."

"I know. I'm glad your dad's ok."

"Thanks."

"And I'm glad you weren't in the hospital because of that allergic reaction."

"Ugh, don't remind me."

"I told Reiner he almost killed you with the shrimp, and he flipped out. Wants to make it up to you, cook you something that isn't Kraft Dinner."

Jean laughs, "I could probably agree to that."

Marco's giddy with the lightness of knowing Jean is ok. Of being able to talk to him still. He wants to roll himself up in that laughter and breathe it in  - and that is pushing platonic, he realizes. Whoa, there.

"Don't let Reiner make you dinner, his team lost. Gotta ask for the best, Jean."

"If I was asking for the best, I'd make _you_ make me dinner."

Marco flushes with pleasure, "That could be arranged sometime."

"Yeah?" Jean says, and Marco tries to ignore how enthusiastic Jean is at the suggestion.

From behind him, Marco hears the door open, and Bert sticks his head out.

"Marco?"

Marco pulls the phone away from his mouth. "What's up?"

"Sorry to interrupt," Bert says, looking penitent, "But we just got a party of twelve, we need your help back in here."

"Alright, give me a second," Marco says, and Bert ducks back inside.

"Got to go?" Jean asks, and his voice is low, still, and just amazing.

"Sorry. Duty calls."

"No problem, I should get out of bed, too. Got to eat."

"Oh, yeah?"

"It'll be nowhere near the quality of the food you're cooking."

Marco laughs," We can't all be professional chefs."

There's a moment's pause.

"Hey...Marco? Don't, uh...don't be too worried about me, yeah?"

Marco sighs, "Of course I worry about you, Jean. You're a worrisome person to be friends with."

"...Thanks?"

"I mean," Marco says quickly, "I care what happens to you. I can't _stop_ worrying, even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Relationships sort of work that way?"

Over the phone, admitting this is easier, simpler, and Marco doesn't shy away from it like he might've if he could see Jean in front of him.

"Oh," says Jean.

"I'll see you later? Hopefully hives-free?" He's already heading to the kitchen doors.

"...I care about you, too," Jean suddenly says quietly, and Marco stops, "Like, I care what happens to you, too."

"...Thanks."

"Don't make it awkward."

Marco laughs, "You started it."

"I did not! Just-" someone is talking in the background, and Jean responds just out of earshot of the microphone.

"Sorry, Marco," he says, finally, "I've got to go."

"Alright. Have fun. No more hospital trips."

He imagines Jean rubbing the sleep from his eyes, hair wild and warm to the touch. Then he imagines him rolling his eyes.

"Ha ha. Good night, Marco."

"Goodnight, Jean."

Marco almost burns another pan of onions when he comes back into the kitchen, but that's less to do with Jean Kirchstein's health and more to do with the words _I care about you too_ looping in his head.

 

 

Hannes and Rebecca live in an apartment building in the midst of a subdivision in the suburbs, which Jean thinks is a strange place for a low-rise when he and his father get there the next week. They've got a cat who eyes Jean with distain and a massive TV which shows nothing but friendliness when Jean turns on, so he sticks with that. The kitchen looks out on to their living room, so Jean is asked what he'd like to drink as he finds the best place on the couch. His father denies the offer for wine, claiming his head hasn't found its proper place on his shoulders again, but Greg Kirschtein is walking and talking and that's a win in Jean's books.

Rebecca brings Jean a glass of beer and sits next to him on the couch.

"Been a while," she says, smiling, "How have you been, Jean?"

Jean likes Rebecca. He's known her since he was the age where it was appropriate to hide behind your mother's legs when strangers appeared, since before he started karate, and all through his awkward teen years, so he has no secrets she doesn't know about.

Well. Almost.

"Fine, I guess," he shrugs, "Sounds like you've been better than I have, Doctor."

She grins and raises her eyebrows, "You're the only one who's called me that. Hannes keeps laughing when I suggest it."

"It's a doctorate degree, not a medical license!" Hannes calls from the bar, and Rebecca sticks out her tongue at him.

Jean laughs, and takes a sip of his beer.

"No, it's been great," Rebecca goes on, "Glad to be back in Trost. Especially since it means you and your dad are close by."

Jean looks at his lap, "Yeah."

She nudges him, "Alright, enough boring small talk. Tell me something good," she lowers her voice conspiratorially, "Any hot dates you want to tell me about? Getting some lovin', Jean Kirschtein? Girls calling you up late?"

Jean blushes, but he can't help his smile, "God, no."

The blush he also can't help - though he wishes he could - because Rebecca's eyes spark and she leans closer, "Any hot _boys_ calling you up late?" she whispers.

Jean thinks of Marco. He can't help himself.

Then he thinks of anything else, anything else, anything at all.

And he shots a glance to his father, but Greg and Hannes are engaged in their own conversation.

"Rebecca," Jean hisses.

She leans back, though there's a wink in there he could have gone without, "That's not a no."

"Can we talk about something else?" he suggests weakly.

"Suspicious, Jean. Very suspicious."

He groans and leans against the couch, but he knows she won't say anything. Rebecca and his mother were best friends, after all. She knows what things stay quiet in the Kirschtein household, and which ones are said aloud.

He realizes how much he's missed them. How easy it is for Hannes to help his father stay focused where Jean never could. How he and Rebecca are suddenly back and suddenly things seem easier and Jean breathes and feels like his younger self, sputtering through adult conversation. Only this time he gets to have beer and use the full sized utensils.

Dinner, though, is not great. Neither Hannes or Rebecca have any culinary inclinations. Jean still loves it, but he thinks about Marco's cooking, and he wishes that Marco wasn't so damn good at what he does so maybe Jean could enjoy normal food again. At least they don't serve salmon. That might not have gone over well.

Thinking of Marco is a no-go at this point, though. Jean's determined to stop. Marco's on his mind far too often lately.

"What are Sasha and Connie up to?" Hannes mentions over his potato salad.

Jean swallows, "Uh, they're moving to Trost, actually."

The table looks surprised, "Really?" Jean's dad says, and he looks pleased, "What crazy thing have they gotten themselves into now?"

"There's a dojo that's hired them to teach classes," Jean says.

Rebecca frowns, "Weren't you the one that taught them karate? You should apply, too, Jean."

Hannes nods, "Might be good for you."

Jean can't meet their eyes, "Actually, uh...they did offer me a job."

"That's great!" Rebecca says, pointing with her fork, "You should take it. Stretch your wings again, even if it's back home."

"...I've already got work," Jean mumbles, pushing around the salad on his plate.

Hannes clears his throat, "I want to ask something, Greg," he cuts in, "This brings it up, I suppose. I was wondering..." Jean watches as Hannes rubs the back of his neck, "...if I could come back to working on the farm."

Greg sits up straighter, "To the foreman position?"

"I'd take anything, I know I left and I don't want to ask you to have me back, but..."

"Of course," Greg says warmly, "You can have your job back, Hannes. You shouldn't sound so unsure, I always have a place for you on our farm."

Hannes breaks into a grin, "You won't mind having me around more often, again?"

Greg scoffs, "Never."

Rebecca leans across the table, "Does this mean, then, that Jean might get a reprieve from farm work?" she asks carefully.

Jean looks up sharply, and she gives him a wink, "Well, Jean? With Hannes back, you could have the time to take that job."

Jean looks at his dad, but Greg is only watching him curiously, "Do you want that?" he asks his son.

And Jean shouldn't, he _shouldn't,_ but he nods.

"Yes," he croaks, "Yeah, I mean. If you could still manage." Hope is a dangerous thing, and Jean doesn't want to accept it too soon.

But his father nods, "If that's what you want, Jean, of course you can."

"I'll still help whenever I can," Jean says quickly, "I can keep doing deliveries, or finances..."

But Hannes claps him on the shoulder, and laughs, "That's what I'm here for, Jean. You don't have to worry."

 _Don't have to worry_.

What an idea.

When the three adults are in the kitchen doing dishes, Jean sneaks out on to the balcony, digging out his phone.

"Jean?"

"Connie. Hey," he says, after Connie barely answers it in time, "You got a minute?"

"What's up man?"

Jean leans on the railing, smiling despite himself, "...Is that job still available?"

"You're going to take it?" Connie asks, "Fuck, yeah, man!"

"I'll go for the interview, anyways," Jean mumbles, but he's still grinning, "Do you think it will work out?"

"Oh, she's going to _love_ you. Wait till I tell Sash, she's just in the shower."

"She's going to freak out."

"Hell, yeah, she will. The three of us, back in the dojo again. Hey-" Connie says suddenly," What're you doing tomorrow night?"

"...not sure."

"Well you better be sure now. 'Cause we're taking you out to celebrate."

Jean laughs, "Dude, I don't even have the job."

"But you will. Come on," he teases, "Pick a club. Let's go dancing."

"I think I know a place. I'll pick you guys up."

"Damn, I'm excited! See you tomorrow, dude!" Connie yells, and then Jean hears him go, "Sasha, guess what we're doing tomorrow?" before he hangs up.

The metal of the balcony's railing is cold, but Jean leans against it anyways, feeling the sensation run straight through his coat to numb his skin. He needs a better jacket. The leather one isn't going to cut it when it really gets cold in January. And he'll need to dig out his uniform, find his black belt somewhere...

He shivers, but this time it's excitement. And before he realizes it, he's unlocked his phone and is digging through his contacts for Marco.

 **To Marco >> **Might have just gotten myself an interview

He stands there and spins his phone in his hands until Marco's response comes in a moment later.

 **From Marco > **congrats! whats the new job

 **To Marco >>** gig teaching karate

 **From Marco >>** that's great Jean :)

 **To Marco >>** have to keep delivering produce to your restaurant, though. still stuck with me.

 **From Marco >** wouldn't have it any other way

The door opens behind him, and Jean has to somehow wipe the stupid grin off his face when Hannes calls him back inside.

Stupid Marco. Stupid Marco and his wonderful, encouraging words.

 

 

Sasha and Connie live in a crappy apartment building meant for students on the other side of town from Hannes and Rebecca. The door into the building looks like it's been kicked in by someone in the past and the stairs have seen better days. Jean climbs them two at a time. The actual apartment is a nightmare of boxes and video game systems and dirty dishes. Jean's been here before, to a housewarming party that felt suspiciously more like the first night of a new dorm room than a dinner party. They'd eaten potato chips and beer, and when Connie and Sasha started arguing over _Halo_ Jean had a conversation with Marco over text about video games.

Needless to say, Jean is going to have to teach that damn prodigy a thing or two about consoles because he must have cooked away all his formative video game years, Jean swears.

Sasha is almost run over by Jean opening the door, and stumbles back into Connie, who's behind her, shirtless and damp.

"Hold your horses, Jean!" she says, "Give us a minute."

Jean closes the door behind him, "Sorry.

"Connie's taking his time," she tells him, gesturing to her boyfriend, "He just got out of the shower."

"I was having difficulties!" Connie says, running past them and into the bedroom.

Sasha scoffs, "With what, you don't have any hair."

Connie leans out of the doorway, "Guess," he says suggestively, and Sasha makes a face.

"Ew. We're leaving without you."

"No! Hold on, let me find..."

Jean's phone goes off, and he pulls it out to read a text from Marco. Apparently, Reiner just burned off most of his eyebrows trying to flambé. Jean barely suppresses a smile.

"There it is!" Connie emerges, tugging on a sweater, "Now I'm good to go - what are _you_ smiling at?"

Jean looks up, "Hmm?"

"He's on his phone again," Sasha says slowly, "But if _I'm_ here, and _you're_ here, then who is he talking to that has him smirking at his cell phone?"

Connie walks up beside her," Interesting..."

"Come off it," Jean says, "Let's go."

Sasha makes a grab for the phone, but Jean has it out of her reach in an instant, "Hey!"

"I'm curious!" she says.

"God, is nothing sacred?"

"Jean Kirschtein, are you flirting with someone on your phone and not telling us?" she demands, "That is a betrayal of friendship, I hope you know."

"First you don't respond to us forever, and now you don't tell us who your secret phone crush is," Connie crosses his arms, "I'm hurt, man."

Jean sobers, "Hey, that's not fair-"

"-I didn't mean it like that."

"We'll find out, Jean," Sasha promises. "Just wait."

But Jean tucks his phone safely inside his jacket pocket, and leads the way out of the door, "Not if I can help it."

He doesn't hear, as Connie and Sasha are locking the door, Connie's quiet laughter.

"I know it's been a while, but I can't believe he forgot what he's like with a few drinks in him."

Sasha nods deviously, "We'll get to the bottom of this, Springer, you and me."

He high fives her, "Hell yeah."

 

 

Marco's on his way out the door after his shift when his phone rings.

"Marco, you locking up?" Erwin asks, with his car door already open. Marco nods as he answers his phone, and Erwin waves as he shuts his car door and he and Levi head out.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?" the voice on the other side demands, and Marco frowns and holds the phone away from his face to check that, yes, this is Jean Kirschtein calling. In the background there's the sound of loud bass.

"This is Marco Bodt, who is this?"

"I'm Jean's friend," yells the female voice, "His bestest friend in the whole world, yet somehow you're number one in his favourite contacts. Why haven't I met you?"

"Uh," says Marco. He fumbles with the keys for a moment before they click.

"You know what? It doesn't matter. You need to come here."

For a second Marco doesn't know if she's talking to him or someone on her end of the line.

"What?"

"Come here. To the club. We're celebrating."

"With Jean?"

" Yes with Jean! I want to meet you, mysterious Marco."

He checks his watch. For some reason, being either he wants to see what sort of trap this is or because he's curious to meet Jean's friends, he actually feels like he might go.

"Ok, Jean's coming over, I have to go. The club's called...what's it called, Con? _Night Owl_ , shit, that's right. Come find us!"

Then the line disconnects.

 

 

No one told Marco about the cover.

There's a bouncer looking down at him expectantly, and Marco's just lucky that Eren decided today to pay him back today for a box of pizza they split a while back, because otherwise he'd be out of cash and horribly embarrassed at the front of this line of waiting club goers.

"Sorry," he says weakly, quickly trying to dig his wallet out from his pocket, "Didn't expect a cover charge."

"No one expects a cover charge, it's like the Spanish Inquisition," the bouncer says, and Marco feels better handing over the money to a guy who makes Monty Python references. He thinks that his appreciation is visible, because the guy stamps his hand with less force than the last three people admitted.

The club is sticky. The floor keeps trying to convince his feet to stay, slicked with a layer of half-dried beer and liquor, and the air is hot and thick and vibrating with bass. Why he even came he's not entirely sure, but there he is, sticking to the floor. Wondering if missing much of the clubbing scene during his schooling was actually a good idea after all. Marco wishes he knew where to look for Jean and his friends, because he wants his coat off in this sauna, but he feels that navigating this place is going to require his hands free.

Or, at least, free of his coat. A drink, on the other hand, he could manage.

There's a gap for a moment at the bar, and Marco squeezes between two sets of people heavily flirting and heavily made up to catch the bartenders eye. He has to yell for a coke three times before the guy's eyes light up and he nods. The music beats, beats, beats, until most of Marco's thoughts are out of his head.

The Coke he gets is in one of the old fashioned bottles, and what's left of Marco's cash gets used up on it. But at least standing with something cold in his hands makes him feel less out of place. He lets the bar back him up as he tries to scan the club, but there's only so much visibility amidst bodies and strobe lights and that damn bass line smashing concentration to pieces.

And yet.

He sees Jean. He's on the dance floor, and Marco's swig of Coke catches in his throat.

Jean's _dancing._

 His feet aren't moving much, but his body is, grinding against a girl pressed back to front, hands on hips then catching her hands as she reaches up for his neck.

Because there's a second pair of hands snaking around Jean's hips from behind, and a very tall, very male dancer is behind him, pressing up against Jean, placing him squarely between himself and the girl, rocking their hips, swaying and sliding and _touching_.  

It's not like sex, Marco thinks, it's like watching the tangible anticipation of sex. All the breath and the heat and the open-ended question of _when_ rather than _if_. Jean's mouth opens, he's gasping and grinning like a demon, sexy, and closing his eyes as his head rolls back.

The drink in Marco's hand is no longer cold. He can't look away.

And Jean's eyes open and find Marco and lock.

Jean doesn't stop.

His hips grind harder, his body _sings_ with the music, his partners laugh as he grows restless and demanding. He refuses to look away from Marco. Neither of them blink. Marco can feel his body, frozen, _aching_.Fifteen seconds, twenty, thirty.

Then Jean blinks, as if he realizes who, in fact, he's looking at, as the song dies slowly and another comes to take its place. He looks confused, as confused as Marco feels. Because _did that just happen_?

Jean blinks and detaches from his dance partners, looks between Marco and a table at the other side of the club where two kids are laughing as they ready another round of shots. Between them are three cell phones, and Marco realizes they haven't told Jean about the call.

Jean books it across the dance floor, and Marco's going to have to go over eventually, right? Is this going to be awkward?

By the time he gets there, Jean is leaning against the table, scrolling through his call logs, slurring his swears at the other two.

"-damn invasion of privacy you fuckers-" is the general statement, but when Marco walks up, Jean's friends don't pay him any attention. They look at Marco and nearly explode with excitement.

"So this is Marco Bodt?" says the girl, red hair dangerously close to catching in a glass of what appears to be beer, "Hot damn. Holy shit."

She leans into the shoulder of a boy with a nearly-shaved head, "Look at him, he's adorable. Jean's been holding out," she stage screams over the music.

"Dude," says the guy, "You're super hot."

Jean turns to Marco and almost falls over, but Marco reaches out to steady him. Up close, Jean is sweaty and flushed and he smells like beer. Marco lets go of him really quickly, conscious of his hand on the skin of Jean's arm in a truly regrettable way. Conscious of the image of him dancing.

"Marco," Jean whines, "What are you doing here?" Jean's ignoring their interaction, Marco realizes, whether he's doing it on purpose or because he's drunk, it's unclear.

"Your friends invited me," he says innocently, nodding to the two of them. Jean shoots them a look.

"Connie, you suck," Jean tells him straight, "Also, Sasha you suck more. I _told_ you not to _bother him_."

"We wanted to meet him!" says the one who must be Sasha.

"And now you've met him," Jean says, "Now go, Marco, before they get too attached."

Connie nearly stands and knocks over the table, before falling down into Sasha's lap. he extends a hand anyways, "Nice to meet you, Butt."

"It's Bodt," Marco says with a smile, taking the hand, at the same time Jean says, " _Bodt_ you asshole."

"Sit with us! Have a drink!" Sasha cries from beneath Connie, "We're celebrating. Jean - that's Jean," she says, pointing him out where he sits ungracefully into the chair opposite.

"Yes, I know," Marco says calmly.

"He's going to get a job with us. The best job."

"Get's to beat people up," Connie says, hiccupping, "'Cause he's way better than us at it."

"Totally," Sasha agrees.

Marco refuses the rest of her beer she offers him, "Sounds like fun."

With a start, Connie falls off Sasha's lap, and Sasha is suddenly leaning forward, "What do you do, mysterious Marco?"

"What did you call him?" Jean says, confused.

"It's called a nickname, Jean, get the stick out of your ass."

"Yeah," calls Connie from the floor, "Might want something else there later."

Jean goes immediately red, while his friends cackle. Connie's hand appears above the table, and Sasha high fives it.

"I'm a chef," Marco says, trying to draw attention away from Jean's obvious embarrassment, and Sasha's eyes widen.

"No shit."

"He's professional," Jean adds angrily, "Way, way too good."

"I love food," Sasha says solemnly, "Can you make me something?"

Marco laughs, "Sure."

"Right now?"

Marco sees that the same bouncer from before has come into the club and is making his rounds, and he realizes that he's sitting at a table with three very drunk and very uncoordinated people who are about to get kicked out for being exactly that.

"Why not?"

"What?" says Jean.

Marco nods his head towards the bouncer, and luckily Jean is sober enough to make the connection, "Why don't we head over to my restaurant now?"

"You have a restaurant?" Connie asks, climbing to his feet, "Jean he is way out of your league, man."

Jean slaps him across the back, and Connie winces, "Fuck you, man. Let's go."

"I wanted more shots!" Sasha wines.

"You really don't need them."

She grabs out for Marco, even as he's helping her make her way to the door, "I like you."

"Thanks."

"You're a beautiful, freckled person. Saint-like."

"Saint-like," Connie agrees, seriously.

He must be, because it's a miracle he gets the three of them out of there and on to the sidewalk without any serious damage to the club or to themselves. The winter air hits like a fist, and Marco watches the way it shocks the sense back into Jean's eyes, marginally. Connie and Sasha start dancing their way down the street when Marco points them in the right direction, but Jean is apparently done with dancing for the night because he stays back with Marco.

Which is too damn bad, Marco thinks. He could go for a dance...

"Did you just come because they called you?" Jean says, motioning to the other two.

Marco shrugs, "Yeah. Thought it might be fun.104's just a few blocks away I walked."

"Bad idea, man. They're trouble."

Marco grins, "You're trouble, too, I don't stay away from you."

Jean's ears go red, but he only keeps frowning.

"Ah, come on, Jean. They're nice."

"They're fucking drunk."

"I don't know if you know this, but so are you."

"Are you actually going to let them in to your restaurant?"

"Like that? Hell no. Levi really would kill me for that. No, I thought I'd drive you home instead. Maybe," he looks over at Jean," make a McDonalds run?"

Jean burrows deeper into his coat, "We were just going to walk home."

"Well, the offer stands, if you'd like to get out of the cold."

Jean grabs on to Marco's coat suddenly, not making eye contact, "Please."

Marco smiles to himself. He wonders if Jean is thinking about earlier, or if he'll even remember the next day. Also, he wonders how Jean can go from sex-dancer-extraordinaire to this adorable bundle of knitwear walking with his hand grabbing on to Marco. They walk in silence, making up for the disturbance that Sasha and Connie cause ahead of them.

The two of them are shocked into silence when they see the outside of 104.

"I know this place," Sasha breathes. The ringing in her ears makes her louder than normal, Marco thinks, out here where it's quiet and much less sticky, "Reservations are _months_ in advance..."

Connie gives Marco as appraising look, "Way too out of his league," he says offhandedly.

"If you'd like to come by sometime, just let me know," Marco says, "Friends of Jean are friends of mine."

Jean tugs at his coat "That's my table," he whines.

"We're sharing, Jean, it's good for you."

Jean pouts, and Marco's chest squeezes.

"All hail Marco," Sasha decides, bowing to him, "Saint Marco. Bringer of fine cuisine."

Marco laughs, "How about I postpone the high cuisine and we hit up McDonalds instead?"

"Yeah," Jean adds, "I'm not letting you shits ruin Marco's restaurant."

Connie elbows Sasha in the ribs by accident when he nearly slips on a pack of ice, "This kid is amazing," he tells her. She scowls at him, rubbing her ribs.

"Jean, you're never this nice to us," she complains, "Buy me French fries, I feel hurt."

"Buy your own damn fries."

Connie and Sasha end up in the back seat of Marco's car, while Jean huddles in the front. The teenager at the drive thru gives the whole car a once-over when he hands Marco the bag full of french fries and ice cream sundaes. It may have something to do with Connie and Sasha, who are singing _Kissed by a Rose_ loudly in the back seat, but who knows. Marco pays for it all.

"You're going to get the job, dude," Connie starts saying, kicking Jean's seat, "She's going to love you, just wait." He stuffs a handful of fries into his mouth, chewing loudly.

"And then we'll all work together. Except for Marco," Sasha sings, "Sorry, Marco."

"That's alright."

She leans forward, poking his hair with a fry, "Look at all your freckles, man. Connie! Look at all his freckles! _J'aime les taches de rousseur_ ," she goes on.

Marco laughs, "They're nothing special. I used to hate them."

Jean looks over sharply, "You know French?"

"I lived in France for a few years, Jean, to study," Marco gives him a glance, "Why, do _you_ know French?"

"You know what my name is, right?"

"I thought it might have been just for show."

" _Vous sucez_ ," Jean mumbles. _You suck._ Then he continues to scrape chocolate off the side of his sundae container.

"We backpacked through France," Connie pipes up, "Sasha and me. And Germany, and Iceland-"

"-ah, Iceland," Sasha sighs.

"You backpacked through Europe?" Marco asks, "That's amazing."

"Totally," Sasha agrees, chewing. "You know, Marco's cool. Jean, make Marco hang out with us more, he's super cool."

"He paid," Jean tells her, "For the food."

"He what!?" she screams, "Dude, that's it. Jean, I'm voting you out. Marco stays."

Connie laughs into his milkshake when Jean flips around in his seat and scowls, "Hey!"

Marco tries to hold in his smile, "Don't worry, Jean. I'll make sure your memory lives on."

"A moment of silence for the end of our friendship," Sasha intones, holding a hand over her heart.

"What the fuck, guys. Tell Marco your address so I can kick you out of the car."

"Nah, I'm thinking we should just keep driving."

"Forever," Connie agrees.

"Marco, turn left up here so these two can get out," Jean says, and Marco follows his directions as Connie and Sasha start up singing in the back again. When Marco pulls up to their apartment, they both roll out on to the sidewalk gracelessly.

"Marco," Sasha tells him when Marco gets out to help her up, "You're cool. You're allowed to keep hanging out with Jean. I give my permission," she says, though _permission_ takes a few tries.

"Thanks," Marco says, and when he notices that Jean is on the other side of the car he quietly adds, "I kind of want to keep hanging out with him. A lot."

Sasha winks, "I'll bet."

Marco flushes.

She and Connie both somehow make it to the door, and Marco walks them up the stairs to their apartment to make sure they make it inside. Jean tries, but after the first flight he collapses on the landing.

"Go on without me," he moans.

"See you tomorrow, J!" Connie yells, and Marco tries to shush him before any doors open and tell them off.

"Nice to meet you Marco," Connie adds,  even as Sasha is closing the door, "Let's do this again!"

Then it slams and it's just Marco in this warn-down apartment. He makes his way down, stopping in front of Jean who's slumped lazily against the wall. Marco kicks at his feet gently.

"Hey."

"I'm sorry," Jean whispers, "They're a handful."

"You going to get up?"

"Don't think I can," Jean whines, "Help me?"

So Marco offers a hand, but when Jean shakes his head he ends up crouching beside him and dragging Jean's arm over his shoulders. With some more swearing, Jean manages to stand, leaning heavily on Marco. His breath brushes Marco's neck, feet nearly tangled together. There's a moment when Marco's hand slips and ends up pressed against Jean's chest, heartbeat evident against his fingers.

"Thanks," Jean mumbles.

Marco doesn't trust his voice.

 _What if I kissed this drunken boy, right now?_ He thinks. He could do it, too. Jean's lips, and his lips, and Jean would taste like alcohol and bar mints and sarcasm. His heartbeat would spike higher, and Marco would feel that same skin that under those club lights _writhed_ with energy...

But he doesn't.

And luckily Jean untangles himself enough that they can both struggle down the stairs and back into the car. All Jean's previous energy seems to have leeched itself away, and he slumps. Marco fishes out a bottle of water from the glove compartment and hands it over, trying to make up for his horrible, horrible thoughts.

"Drink," he tells Jean, and Jean does it without question.

"Are you dropping me off at home?" Jean groans.

"Yep."

"And then driving back to your place?"

Marco shrugs, "Sure. I've got to work tomorrow, too."

"That's lots of driving."

"I don't mind."

"'S not what I meant."

Marco looks over, but Jean doesn't say anything else. Not when they start leaving the city and the suburbs and run into the empty roads of farm country. The snow here is worse on the car's tires, and Marco concentrates so they don't slip off the road. It's cold tonight. He can't feel it in the heated compartment of the car, but he can see it. Jean breathes against the car windows and draws hearts in the fog, and Marco should be mad at the fingerprints it's going to leave but he loves it too much to make Jean stop.

It's endearing.

"...you like your freckles now, right?" Jean says suddenly.

"What?"

"You said you used to hate them, but do you like them now?"

Marco considers, "...yeah."

"Good."

"..."

"...Because _I_ like your freckles."

Marco doesn't say anything, but he clenches his fingers on the wheel and wonders what Jean's trying to do right now. Saying shit like that, too nice to be Jean, to open to be lying. How he doesn't know it gets beneath Marco's skin and just _burns_ and all Marco wants is to show Jean all of his freckles if it means that Jean will compliment them again and -

Calm down, Marco. Too late to be thinking these things.

His house is looming larger, and Marco's dreading the drive back to town. It's started to snow again. And it's very late.

"You have to be back in the city in, like, seven hours," Marco says.

"I know."

"...I can come pick you up? Drive you back to the truck-"

"You should stay," Jean says clearly, and Marco jumps.

"Stay here?"

"Stay and drive me back to my car in the morning. 'S a couch..." he looks at Marco, drunk and sleepy.

 "Stay," he whispers.

And Marco can't argue.

 

The Kirschtein house is silent and dark, but Jean stumbles in with Marco in tow and leads him through the hallways.

"Quiet," he tells Marco loudly. Marco nods.

It's a little messy and homey, a farm house through and through. There's bills on the kitchen table and an old piano in the corner covered in picture frames. The welcome mat is littered with shoes and boots and melted ice and mud. Lace curtains, wood floors. Carpet worn down in the middle of the stairs by use.

Jean's room is so sparse in comparison, Marco is surprised. A shelf is full of un-folded clothes, and a laptop's still humming on a desk, but besides the bed there's only a few boxes and nothing much else.

"Pajamas," Jean says, waving towards the clothes. He doesn't offer an explanation.

Instead he stops in the middle of the mess and tears off his coat and shirt in one fell swoop with no concern for Marco standing frozen behind him. Jean pulls off his socks and his jeans and then climbs into bed in a pair of black boxer-briefs and Marco is _not_ looking at his ass, holy crap, what is Jean doing, the lights are still on.

Jean takes up most of the bed, curling into a ball and melting into the blankets.

Marco just sort of stands there.

"...Jean?"

Jean doesn't respond.

Marco looks at the open door, and into the hallway and wonders what he's supposed to be doing.

" _Jean_ ," Marco hisses.

"What," comes a muffled reply.

"The couch? Where...?"

Jean groans, "Space here. Just shut up and lie down."

By "here" does that mean the bed? Is Jean asking Marco to sleep in his bed?

Marco closes Jean's bedroom down slowly, hesitantly, like he's going to be berated for it later. From Jean's shelf of clothes he pulls off a T shirt and a pair of track pants and just sucks it up and changes into them. Jean offered, right? Marco isn't getting into a bed with his grungy post-shift clothes, let alone into a bed with _Jean_?

And he stands there, after turning out the lights, at the side of the bed with the most room ( even if it isn't much ) wondering how he came to be in this predicament. Because the worst thing is he probably won't even sleep. He'll just lie awake, next to Jean, for hours. And whatever sort of friendship he thought they had last week, now there are so many lines being crossed and Marco just keeps jumping over them without caring at all the speed they're passing by. Lying next to a friend wearing their clothes and in their bed seems a little....

"Marco..." Jean groans, "Lie down."

Marco lies on top of the covers carefully, like he's going to upset something if he does this rashly.

Jean doesn't move.

And Marco realizes he's going to freeze without a blanket, so he sucks it up and gets himself under the comforter too, for good measure.

Jean still doesn't move. He's asleep.

Marco shouldn't do this, really. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't because he's in the process of failing his job and wondering what he's going to do with his life, and he shouldn't be developing this _thing_ , this... _crush_.

This massive, horrible, romantic crush.

On Jean Kirschtein.

And yet.

Here he is.

Jean's hand is extended outward, his face turned toward Marco and frowning even as he sleeps. And it is the easiest, most manic, and crazy thing he's ever done. He could get caught. How would he explain this?

But Marco's finger traces the soft inside curve of Jean's hand. So lightly. Warm.

And Marco pulls his hand away, tucks it into his chest where he won't be tempted again.

He closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Jean gets super sweaty trying to prove he's a badass. Marco might drop by. We'll see.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Jean gets back to martial arts, Marco meets a potential enemy, and we learn some truth's about the Kirschteins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so very sorry that this is so delayed. In the past month I've done so much and been so busy finishing off my term with essays and exams, but I regretted so much not being able to update. In penance for my delay, here is an extra long chapter, with some extra drama thrown in for good measure. I hope you guys are still enjoying this, the comments have been super lovely, thank you so much. For everyone who wants them to kiss, I promise it will come, in time. Soon! I'm hoping to finish this all before school starts up again for me in September, so we'll see what happens. Oh, and this chapter has lots of martial arts in it, which I really liked writing, I hope it doesn't sound super awkward .
> 
> I had someone really lovely offer to proofread for me, and if they are still interested please let me know! This chapter could probably use a bit more editing, but I want it to be out as soon as possible, so I'm going to go back tomorrow and fix a lot of the spelling mistakes. 
> 
> And to all my lovely commenters: DistantShenanigans, c_tristesse, ThePerfectPeach, NagisaHazuki (as always), Dorian720Shade (your comments made me smile, thank you so much, they got me back into writing this after my hiatus :D), and fins (I promise I will finish this fic, don't you worry :P) you guys are the best, thanks a billion!
> 
> Oh, and come say hi at my tumblr: http://oxfordandmischief.tumblr.com/
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> PS I'd like to note some trigger warnings for mentions of homophobia and grieving over the death of someone close. I don't want anyone to be emotionally compromised, so please be careful.

Jean's forehead is pressed between Marco's shoulder blades. From the clock on the bedside table Marco can see it's just been a few hours, but the familiar feeling of restlessness is settling into his bones and he knows that's all the sleep he's going to get. It's more than usual. What that has to do with the warmth radiating along his back, he's not going to speculate. Hibernation may not be in the cards but if it were Marco would choose this place, right here, sleeping next to Jean all winter long.

One of Jean's feet tucks under Marco's ankle, effectively tangling them together. And there's the weight of knuckles brushing along his back, and Marco smiles. He also realizes that somehow he's taken all of the covers, and that Jean must be close to him just for the warmth. But, _what a surprise_ , he doesn't mind.

He doesn't sleep but he lies there in the state between full consciousness and dreaming for a while, trying to get to a place where he can tuck all these annoying feelings away when Jean comes back to the world of the waking.

Eventually, Marco needs to get up. The process of disengaging from Jean has to be done slowly and carefully, but apparently Jean's system is in sleep mode while it tries to work through all the alcohol and Jean only sighs and rolls over when Marco's sitting up properly. He throws the comforter back over Jean, laying it out so it covers his feet. Jean rolls again, this time burrowing deeper until just the lighter portion of his hair is visible, tucking out against his pillow messily.

At this point the cuteness is too much and Marco wonders if Jean would mind if he figured out the Kirschtein coffee maker downstairs. Otherwise, Marco is going to get right back into that bed, and if his arms wind up around Jean's waist then he can't be held accountable.

The sun's not quite up, but it's flirting with the horizon. The stairs creak as Marco pads barefoot down them, and the kitchen is cold. In the near daylight there's parts of it he can see better: the old mismatched dishes in the dish rack, the Formica table with its vintage-patterned top just visible under the piles of paper and old coffee mugs, the magnets on the fridge with crayon scribbles pronouncing they were made by a Jean much younger and much less artistic.  It reminds Marco of his childhood, when his own kitchen looked like this. Before he had enough to buy his mother her own place, and before he bought his own and had everything to match. He misses it sometimes. Misses the old cracks in the linoleum and the comfortable knowledge of every creaky step and strange noise coming from the fridge. Of tuna sandwiches and glasses of milk and cartoons watched from a warm out carpet covered in spills and stains from growing up clumsy.

Nostalgia feels stronger in Jean's kitchen than it does in Marco's house. It echoes with things that he didn't think he remembered.

The coffee machine,  however, is brand new and well used. Marco sets it up and listens as the crackling fills the kitchen and he rubs his feet together. The floor is very cold. From the kitchen window, he can see the expanse of the farm and the greenhouses that he assumes are growing the produce he'll use in a few weeks, maybe sooner. It's interesting, finding himself here at the very beginning of the cooking process. He wonders if maybe Jean would let him come by and help out sometime.

Marco's so deep in thought he doesn't here the stairs creak. He doesn't hear someone behind him until a voice speaks out.

"Marco Bodt?"

Marco spins, smashing his knee on the cabinets. Greg Kirschtein is standing behind him, looking somewhere between having just seen a ghost and wondering where his shotgun is to shoot the burglar in his house.

"Oh, Mr. Kirschtein, I'm sorry," Marco says quickly. He tries not to wince when he straightens his knee, and realizes immediately he's wearing Jean's clothes and that can't possibly be misconstrued, can it? "I'm probably the last person you expected to see."

Mr Kirschtein frowns, "Yeah, well. Not every day you walk in to your kitchen to find a client using the coffee-maker."

"Sorry, I, uh, I hoped you wouldn't mind..." he trails off, and watches as Mr. Kirschtein's eyebrows go up and his arms cross, "I drove Jean and his friends home yesterday from the bar, I didn't think they were in any fit state to drive," he adds quickly, and then looks at his clothes and makes a split second decision to lie, "Jean offered to let me stay so, uh, I could drive him to his truck in the morning. And lent me some pajamas. I just crashed on his floor..."

Mr. Kirschtein seems at least partly satisfied by this response, "Ah. That was nice of you."

Marco shrugs nervously, "What are friends for, right?"

Greg walks over to the now full coffee machine and Marco steps out of his way. He pours two cups and offers one to Marco, "Since you made it."

"Thanks."

"Didn't realize you and Jean were friends," he says, leaning against the counter and regarding Marco carefully.

"When Jean started doing the delivery we sort of started talking," Marco says, tucking his hand around the mug and pretending he doesn't mind his coffee black. He also tucks his big gay crush deep down in his chest because he's not sure he wants it out in the open, "He's a really great guy, I'm glad we got along."

"He's been a little lonely lately," Greg admits, "Without Sasha and Connie here he was home too much. It's good he's going out again."

Marco nods.

"And he'll have a new job, I hear, that'll be good for him."

Marco wonders if Mr. Kirschtein wants him to agree or is convincing himself by saying it.

"I think," Marco says carefully, "He'll really enjoy it."

Greg chuckles into his coffee, "He always enjoyed that karate stuff. Damn good at it, too. But he'll still be around, you know. Delivery and all that. 'S long as it fits into his schedule, of course."

"Of course."

The conversation lulls, and Marco wonders what he can possibly add to this horribly awkward moment. He's only met Greg Kirschtein in the back alleyway, delivering the same way his son does now, only it was never a particularly talkative relationship. All business with the Kirschteins.

Well. Until now.

Greg's phone goes off and he pulls it out of a pocket, scrolling through it.

"That's my queue to start the day," he tells Marco, "But it was nice talking to you"

"Likewise," Marco says.

"And thanks for getting my boy home alright. You make sure he pays you back for all that gas, alright?"

Marco's mind immediately and unfortunately goes to the worst possible interpretation of the term "pay me back" and he hopes that the light is still dim enough his blush won't be completely obvious.

"Sure thing, Mr. Kirschtein. And thanks," he holds up his mug, "For the coffee."

"Hey," Greg laughs, "You made it."

 

 

Jean sort of trips and stumbles into consciousness, very aware of a headache and the fact he's wearing nothing but boxers. Someone's phone is going off. And the ringtone sounds suspiciously like Marco Bodt's.

He sits up slowly, disoriented, looking around his room and taking stock of the clothes across the floor...the two sets of shirts, and pants, a phone slipping out of one of the pockets and lighting up the room green. He half crawls and half rolls until he can reach across and check to make sure that, yes, that phone is Marco's. And then the panic sets in.

Because what the hell is he doing mostly naked in a bed with Marco Bodt's clothes strewn around it, and why can't he remember most of what happened last night?

His own phone is in his coat pocket, and Jean scrambles back under the covers once he has it, dialing Connie's number in a rush and almost calling the wrong number more than once. Connie picks up on the second try.

"What," he breathes, "the fuck."

"Connie, what the hell happened last night," Jean hisses.

"Jean," Connie says sleepily, "Some of us are still drunk. Can this wait?"

"Connie, I am _freaking out_ right now, what the hell happened?" Jean says, panic setting his voice higher than usual.

"You mean besides the line of shots and you dirty dancing with a hot girl and her boyfriend?"

Jean's stomach plummets, "I did what?"

"Nhghff," Connie responds, over the sound of him rolling over.

"Was Marco there?"

"Freckles? Walked in right as you were about to take off your clothes on the dance floor." Jean buries his face in his pillow, "And then he drove us to McD's and back to our apartment."

And he sort of remembers that?

But then where is Marco now, and how did Jean get here, anyways, and was that some sort of fevered dream that Marco Bodt was actually in his bed?

"Did Marco say anything after?"

Connie groans, "After your bisexual sandwich-"

"Connie, shut up," Jean snaps, "Don't.. don't say shit like that."

"Jean..." Connie says, suddenly sounding more sober, "Hey, it's ok-"

"Did Marco say anything about what he was doing after he dropped you off," Jean cuts in.

"...Why?"

Jean hesitates a moment, "...Uh, because I can't remember what happened and his clothes and my clothes are sort of in piles around my bed..."

"Jean Kirschtein," Connie says, "are you asking me if you slept with Marco Butt?"

"It's _Bodt_ ," Jean whines, without any energy behind it. He can hear Sasha in the background suddenly interested.

"That doesn't answer-"

"I don't _know_ ," Jean hisses.

Then he stops. There's voices in the kitchen.

"Wait," he says, "Someone's downstairs."

"Go see who it is, then," Connie tells him.

Jean rolls out of a bed and just forgoes clothes as he crawls across his floor and across the hallway until he's at the top of the stairs, listening through the railing to the kitchen below.

"It's Marco and my dad," Jean whispers, "Shit."

"Shit," Connie agrees.

Jean hears Marco go: _drove_ _Jean and his friends home yesterday from the bar_.... _Jean offered to let me stay so, uh, I could drive him to his truck....lent me some pajama_ s _...on the floor..._

But there's no way in hell Marco slept on that floor, there weren't any blankets or anything?

"What are they saying?" Connie says

"Marco says he slept on my floor."

"...Did he?"

"I don't _know_ ," Jean hisses. He's sort of relieved that, even if something had happened - _which it totally did not because Jean is a). not gay and b). totally does not feel that way towards Marco, there is no attraction there, nothing, just stupid hormonal things, he's still young it's all in his head_ \- Marco isn't talking to his dad about it.

Which is the best thing Jean can ask for.

"...You're going to have to ask him," Sasha says, and Jean can hear Connie protesting as she cuts into the conversation.

"...fuck me."

"He may have already done that, " she says, and Jean sneaks back into his room, willing the conversation to be over. It's not.

"Jean," Connie says, wrestling the phone back, "If you want to talk about it, I mean, like, if you _did_ sleep with him you know that that's alright, right?"

Jean pulls on a pair of track pants and a sweater and contemplates just not answering.

"We'd be fine with it. You ever need to talk, just-"

"It's ok," Jean says, "It's fine. I don't remember anything happening, right? I'm just being stupid."

"Jean."

"It's _fine_ , Con. Sorry for waking you."

Connie sighs, "...Let me know what happens, alright?"

"We're here for you, Jean," Sasha yells over his shoulder.

"See you guys later," he mumbles.

"Yeah, in, like, a few hours. This interview is going to be _great_."

Ugh. Jean wonders how much alcohol should still be in his system.

And he can't even bring himself to say thanks to Connie and Sasha for what they said, and he feels bad about it as he clicks his phone off. But he's not gay. He's _not_. It was just something stupid, when he was younger. When he was a kid. God, however long ago that was.

 _You still are a kid,_ his mind kicks in.

 _No I'm not_ , he tells himself, burrowing into the blankets face first and trying not to think for just a second.

He pretends he doesn't hear his door opening, or Marco closing it behind him. He pretends that the shuffling of Marco's feet towards him is all in his head and he feels sick to his stomach at the prospect of looking up at that damn freckly face and asking whether or not Jean had acted on the stupid, stupid, stupid thoughts he's had about Marco Bodt.

"Jean?"

Jean closes his eyes for a silent moment and then turns to face him.

"Hey, Marco," he mumbles.

Marco is wearing his clothes and Jean swallows. Hard.

"How are you feeling?" Marco asks, and Jean pulls his legs to his chest to rest his forehead against his knees.

"Like I was way too drunk to remember last night."

"I figured."

"How'd you end up here, anyways?" Jean asks, and he thinks he might actually have succeeded at making it sound nonchalant. He turns his head so he can see Marco a little, watching as Freckles tugs self-consciously at the hem of his shirt. Jean's shirt.

"I drove Sasha and Connie home, and then you offered to let me stay here so I could drive you back to your truck," he shrugs, "Though you sort of crashed on me, so I sort of...borrowed your pajamas? And slept in your bed."

Jean wills himself not to blush, "Wow. I'm a jerk. Forcing you to sleep in the same bed." Ok. That might have been a little forced.

Marco smirks, "Well, I didn't have many options. You just sort of stripped and then immediately fell unconscious, so."

Wow, Jean. Way to go.

"I should have warned you, I'm a horrible drunk."

"You didn't really have time. I mean, your friends drunk-dialed me."

Marco holds up his shirt and raises his eyebrows, as if to ask if Jean doesn't mind if he changes back into it. Jean shrugs. Then he pretends to not be watching as Marco turns his back and pulls off his shirt. Hot. Damn.

There's freckles all down his back, tucking themselves into the waist of the shorts he's wearing and nestled in corners and nooks of muscle and the curve of his spine. From the angle Jean has he can just see the planes of Marco's stomach, and he doesn't even realize he's speaking until the words are out in the open.

"Whoa, dude."

Marco turns to look over his shoulder wicked fast, turning his front away from Jean even more and blushing, "What?"

Jean can tell his attempt to stop himself turning red has been laid to waste by his stupid, idiotic mouth and his face is burning.

"Uh..." he stalls, "I mean, like, I'm an athlete and I have trouble getting definition like that to stay," Jean says.

Marco tugs on his own shirt, and Jean almost wishes he hadn't.

"Told you, right? I have insomnia. Sometimes instead of cooking or whatever I, uh, do crunches. Sit ups. Skipping, on bad nights."

Jean is impressed, "This is what I'm missing out on by sleeping? Getting buff?" he jokes, but Marco just shakes his head lightly.

"Trust me, if I could sleep, I would."

Jean shuts his mouth. Marco looks...wistful. And Jean wants to smooth that look off his face with his fingers and pull him down to sleep beside him again. This time so he can remember it-

"Sorry."

"I'm not mad," Marco sends him a smile, "Besides, today it's a good thing I'm up early. You probably would have slept past your interview if I wasn't already awake."

Jean flops back on to his bed, "Ugh."

"That excited?"

But he is. He sprawls his arms and considers that he's going back to the dojo, and the headache recedes as he blinks his eyes open and stares at the ceiling.

"...Yeah," he says quietly, "I really, really am."

 

In Marco's car, Jean curls into the seat when his phone goes off and he reads Connie's text on the screen.

 **Connie** >> verdict?

 **Jean** > Nothing happened

 **Connie** >> disappointed?

 **Jean** >  you need to shut ur face

 **Connie** >> <3 u too

 "What's up?" Marco asks, and Jean quickly tucks his phone against the seat and his legs, out of sight.

"Nothing, just Connie bugging me about his hangover," Jean offers smoothly, burrowing into his coat.

"Sorry," Marco offers, "My car takes forever to heat up."

"Yeah, well, it's probably fine for you. You're furnace-temperature anyways, aren't you?" Jean says without thinking, and as he does he remembers why he knows this. The memory of Marco's back, so incredibly warm and nearby surfaces, and Jean swears brilliantly in his head.

"I mean-" he tries, but Marco's looking at him in surprise and Jean doesn't have any more words to get himself out of this one.

"Can we, uh, forget I said that?" he squawks, and his voice is so strangely pitched and strained that it sounds like a dying duck. And Marco just throws his head back and laughs and laughs for what feels like a kilometer.

"Oh my God!" he cackles, and Jean burrows his face beneath his scarf, "Aw, come on, Jean, I didn't mean to make fun of you."

"Go away, you madman, let me die of my embarrassment in peace."

"Never."

Jean peaks over his scarf, and Marco's grinning at him as best he can while watching the road and the heat must turn on because Jean suddenly doesn't feel so cold anymore.

 

At his truck, Jean jumps out as fast as he can, digging his workout bag from Marco's backseat and leaning in through the window as Marco rolls it down.

"Good luck," Marco tells him, "You'll be great."

"Thanks," Jean mumbles, "for driving me home and everything, too. And Connie and Sasha."

Marco shrugs, "'Any friend of yours', and all that."

"You really are Saintly, Marco."

Marco chuckles, "I try. Now get going, you'll be late."

"Alright, alright. I'm going."

Jean stands beside his truck, watching Marco pull around in the snow and wave before he hits the main street. Jean waves back. And he waits in the cold for a moment until the strange feeling in his chest, whatever it is, starts to go away.

For a moment he thinks _longing_.

But that's ridiculous.

 

 

 

Marco has this stupid wish that he could have kissed Jean goodbye. Because it felt like he should have, with him leaning across from him in the window and the night before and the scent of his clothes and of his bed still knocking around Marco's head...

But he didn't get his kiss and sits in his car after its parked in the 104 alley feeling frustrated and irritable at his un-kissed state.

Armin is the one to knock on his window, and Marco jumps a foot in the air because all he'd been doing is imagining the perfect night-after-drop-off-kiss with Jean Kirschtein. How Jean would taste, sigh against his lips, curl against Marco, and wouldn't that just sweep him off his feet-

"You ok, Marco?" Armin asks kindly. Behind him, Eren is standing shivering in the snow and Mikasa is heading into the building.

"Hey, guys. I'm fine. Just spacing out a little," Marco says, getting out of the car. Armin steps back to give him room, "Late night."

Armin raises his eyebrows, "Oh?"

"Not like that," Marco says dryly, "Just drinks with some friends."

"We weren't invited?" Eren says jokingly.

"Not this time."

"Sucks, man. I could have used a drink, I'm so not ready for this online psych test next week."

"Isn't Mikasa in that same class? Aren't you guys both studying for it?"

Armin rolls his eyes, "If they ever get around to it. It's why we came in early, I'm quizzing them."

Marco goes to lock the car but Eren nudges him first.

"Wait, your phone."

But Marco's phone is in his pocket, he can feel it. Which means that the phone on the passenger seat, half-shoved between the cushions, must be... Jean's.

Marco doesn't say anything. He follows them inside and leaves them to the dining room to thaw out while he heads up to his office and to the shower he's been looking forward to. But now, he's got Jean's phone to think about.

He unlocks it and the last conversation with Connie pops up. He tries not to read the texts, but he catches the question about Jean being disappointed. Marco wonders what Jean was disappointed about, but he makes himself click the home button so he can search for contacts. He'll have to call Jean's house and hope his dad picks up...

Except there's an easier way, he thinks. Sasha is listed as "Potato Girl Sash" so it takes Marco a minute to find her in the contacts list. The phone rings once before Sasha's voice comes over the line.

"Well hello there, Jean Kirschtein, do you know what's funny? I'm looking at you across the room right now and you aren't on your phone."

"Hi, Sasha," Marco says weakly.

"Marco!" she gushes, "my hero."

"I'm not sure I've done enough to warrant that response," he admits sheepishly.

"You've driven me home drunk, bought me food, and now you've stolen Jean's phone, I think you're headed in the right direction."

"He left it in my car."

"That's no fun...oh, he's looking at me now and wondering who I'm talking to," she pauses, "There, now I've given him a look, he's even more confused."

"Wait, is he at the interview?"

"Zoe's decided she wants him to go through a few of her morning classes, first, to see what he's like."

Marco sits at his desk and starts flicking a pen in circles across the top, "Don't interrupt him, then, I just wanted to let him know I have his phone."

"Why don't you come and watch?"

Marco stops," What?"

"You can bring over his phone, and there's a place to watch for parents and stuff. Do you have time?"

Marco considers, "Yeah, I think so?"

"Great, come on over. Jean'll be terrified, it'll be awesome."

"Wait, Sasha-"

"I won't tell him, it'll be a surprise! I'll text the address to his phone!"

She hangs up before he can say why this is a bad idea, which is probably a good thing because he can't articulate right now _why_ it's a bad thing but give him a moment, it'll come. He takes his shower, anyways, in the few minutes it takes for Sasha to send over the address, and pulls on a hat over his damp hair before he heads out.  In the dining room the trio has camped out across a booth with textbooks across every inch - except for the place where Eren's forehead is resting in apparent despair - when Marco sticks his head inside.

"I'm heading out for a second," he calls out.

"Drive safe," Armin answers, distractedly, and Marco leaves them to it.

He wonders if he's going to regret this.

But then there's the thought of Jean in a martial arts uniform, and there's a certain appeal to that which makes the cold biting at his damp skin all the more bearable.

 

 

The dojo belongs to a person name Hange Zoe. It's on the second floor of plaza just off the main street of the city, with windows all along the south wall and brand new mats yet to be worked in. When Jean kicks off his shoes to step on to them, he realizes how much he missed this. How much is different since he last felt the give of foam and caught his reflection in the wall of mirrors along the front wall. How much anxiety leaks out of his shoulders at the familiarity of it all.

Connie and Sasha leave to get changed, and Jean is left alone. He takes a breath, sliding his feet out into a stance and relaxing into it. Even in jeans it feels natural. Comfortable.

"Nice," says a voice from his left, and Jean barely stops himself from jumping.

He guesses this is Hange Zoe. She's wearing a pair of thick glasses and a T Shirt that reads "Trost Karate" across the front, and looking at him like he's the most fascinating thing she's seen in weeks.  

"Thanks?" Jean mumbles, straightening, "I'm Jean Kirschtein, nice to meet you."

"I know who you are," she says quickly, "Do you know who I am?"

He tenses, "Hange Zoe?"

"Correct!" She gives him a thumbs up, "Just call me Zoe, that will be great. Are you ready for some karate?"

Already this is sounding like a strange one-sided pep talk and less like the formal introductions of an interview, but then this person did hire Connie and Sasha, and Jean has never been barefoot at an interview before, so.

"You'd like me to just...join in?"

Zoe shrugs, "No better way to see what your skills are. Why don't you go get changed, the adult class should start arriving in another minute or so."

She looks at him expectantly. He frowns.

"Did you want to go over anything...?" he says carefully, but she just claps him on the back soundly.

"We'll worry about all that stuffy formal talk later. Right now I'm in the mood for some working out!"

"Ok..."

But she's not really paying attention to him anymore. Instead, she's walking away mumbling something about pulling out a bow staff to practice with, maybe, and Jean takes it as a cue to leave and get changed.

Connie's just heading out as Jean approaches the change rooms.

"Don't use the far left locker," he says to Jean, "They're brand new and already someone's spilled God knows what all over the shelf."

So Jean is left alone to pick a locker somewhere in the middle, and he shivers as he strips down. The uniform may have been left alone for a few months, but it's so worn that the fabric goes on soft and cool. Everything about it is like a memory: the texture and the collar against his neck. The give in the patched knees, the wearing out of the left elbow. And the belt. Tying it comes back to him with sure fingers, and there's nothing in the world, he thinks, like the square set of his shoulders when he's in uniform. Like everything is aligned in the world, starting with his back.

He walks out on to the mats with more confidence than he's felt in a long time. Even with the feeling at the back of his mind of all that's changed since he last was wearing it.

Connie is warming up, and he calls Jean over for stretching. Luckily, Connie's still feeling the hangover that Jean's chased away with a few Advil and the cold air from the car ride with Marco, so he doesn't talk much. A few adults start to meander in, headed to the change rooms, and they nod to the two of them.

From the viewing area Jean hears Sasha laughing, talking to someone on her phone. He gives her a look and she only suggestively raises her eyebrows at him, which he frowns at.

"Who's she talking to?" he asks Connie.

Connie turns, "Hmm? Oh, who knows. Sometimes she'll just call a random number and try to have a conversation with whoever's on the other end."

"Does that go well?" Jean asks wryly. He watches as Sasha hangs up.

"It's Sasha. It goes about as well as you might expect."

Zoe finally sneaks past them, back into her office.

"She's got a mini apartment back there," Connie tells him, "She's intense. She may even like karate more than you do, Jean."

Jean rolls his eyes, "How much do you think I love karate?"

"About as much as you love Marco Bodt," says Connie under his breath, but Jean hears him clearly and his neck cracks when he snaps to look at him. He opens his mouth for what will most likely be a wicked comeback, but a nice-looking twenty-something woman gets Connie's attention first and he sprints away from Jean like his life depends on it.

Which, considering Jean is in a place where maybe he can practice actual fight moves on Connie and produce at least some sort of pain, is not out of the question.

 

The class starts promptly at nine thirty, and Jean finds a place in the back row where he can watch them and they have a harder time seeing him. Just in case he's a little out of practice. Sasha leads the warm up. They're mostly all low ranking colour belts, so she goes easy, and Jean finds that his time spent on the farm has kept his muscles almost in shape.

He's confident through the stances Zoe puts them through, and the kata practice. The movement comes back easily enough, considering it's all beginners stuff. It's only when Zoe announces a sparring match that Jean thinks something might be up.

"We have a guest today, as you might have noticed," she says, "Jean Kirschtein, another black belt."

She gets the class to applaud hesitantly, and Jean flinches. She's watching him with that intensity again.

"We're going to demonstrate a high-level sparring match, something you can aspire to develop, if it interests you."

The class mumbles in appreciation. Jean does not mumble in appreciation. Not even when Connie thrusts a pair of gloves into his hands and skitters off. Because Zoe is a fifth degree black belt and Jean is a second, and he's still a little rusty, and holy shit he's going to have to spar against her?

Shit. Wait. No, he's not allowed to swear in the dojo.

But the class forms a circle around them anyways, and Jean walks into the centre, facing Zoe and her crazy gaze and her confident stance.

"You alright, Jean?" she asks him.

And Jean's a little nervous, but there's something about this environment, this competition, that he's missed - _God_ he's missed - and he's ready to be back. Bruises and all.

Zoe comes after him.

She's all about the speed and the decoy jabs and Jean keeps his stance and ducks around the straight shots to his gut and his neck. He blocks them well, sweeping away the arms, and then it's all about getting her focused on something else while he gets himself ready to strike. There's a particular punch she does, going in for a close elbow, that has Jean stumbling back. The colour belt class steps out of his way.

But this distance is perfect, and there's that feeling. That feeling that time is perfectly slowed, perfectly balanced with his body, that he takes the step, finding his place against the mats, and comes back with the most beautiful back side kick he's done in ages.

But see, there's this thing with back sidekicks where your back is to your target, and Zoe is not the head instructor for nothing. The kick goes out, and it hits air. Zoe has him, jabbing him in his kidney, and he winces and staggers off balance.

The class is engaged, from the floor he can feel their excitement. He gets up spinning, legs out. Kicks have always been his thing, after all. His uniform's come undone and he can feel the heat of the room on his skin, but he's after Zoe and nothing's in his way now-

-Except for Marco fucking Bodt.

Who has just walked into the viewing area.

Jean's attention wavers, and Zoe sees it, swipes out his legs, and before he even processes what has happened, has him tied into a shoulder lock on the floor and calmly holds him in place until he has to tap out.

"Excellent," she's saying, "Well done. Go get yourself a drink."

Jean nods and bows out, wading through the students into the viewing area where Marco is talking to Sasha. His back is aching, and his side's going to have a lovely bruise tomorrow, but it felt _good_ to fight again. Really good. Up until that lovely horrible moment when he caught Marco's eye.

Marco looks up as Jean is tucking his uniform back into place.

"What are you doing here?" he all but demands, and Marco nearly takes a step back.

"You left your phone in my car, I came to return it," Marco says defensively. Jean crosses his arms.

"You distracted me, I almost had her!"

And Marco, the jerk, squeezes his lips together like he's trying not to laugh.

"What?!" Jean demands.

Sasha, beside Marco, is not trying to hold in any laughter. Between giggles she says, "Please. Zoe had your number from the start."

"But you looked," Marco adds, "Very cool"

Jean sighs, "You two are evil."

"I came all the way here to return your phone!" Marco protests, holding it out.

Jean takes it, trying in vain to not make any contact with Marco's skin and failing. The sensation goes all the way up his arm.

"Thanks," he mumbles.

Sasha hands over a water bottle, "I better get back in there, she's giving me _looks_ ," Sasha sighs, "good to see you, Mysterious Marco."

"You too, Sasha."

Which leaves him alone with Marco. For some reason, Jean feels unsettled in a way he usually doesn't around Marco. Usually, Freckles is calming, he's steady, he's _Marco_ for crying out loud, but there's something about this moment that feels precarious. Except Jean doesn't know what's below the cliff he's balancing on, and it feels like it could be something dangerous...or something better.

"...Are you alright?"

Jean looks up, and Marco looks concerned.

"I'm fine."

"She knocked you around a little."

Jean taps on his gloved hands, "We're padded."

"Jean."

Jean has been avoiding eye contact, and Marco knows it. But eye contact means acknowledgement and acknowledgement means examining Jean's reaction. And Jean's not ready to so any self-analysis right now, thanks.

But he looks up anyways.

"I'm fine," Jean says, though he doesn't sound fine. He sounds dazed. Marco's eyes are intensely focused.

"You did look really amazing," Marco says, and his voice is the opposite of confused. It's low and sweet and Jean wants to keep hearing it.

"Uh..."

Jean wants to keep looking at the way Marco's eyes are taking him all in.

He wants to be closer.

Marco's not turning away.

Then someone in the dojo slams against the mats, and both Jean and Marco jump out of their moment.

"Thanks for, uh, bringing my phone back," Jean says, stepping away and tightening the Velcro of his gloves, "I should get back in there."

"Of course," Marco says quickly, digging his mittens out of a coat pocket, and not looking at Jean, "Let me know how the rest of the day goes."

"I will."

Marco peaks up through his lashes and Jean once more, his cheeks red. Jean gives him a smile, if a small one. And he wishes Marco would stop looking like that, because it's handsome and unnerving and Marco shouldn't be either of those things.

"Text me when you get the job," he says slyly.

And then Marco's gone and Jean finds his feet back on the mats, trying to shake his head out of the places it was going just a moment ago.

 

The class ends after some partner drills and a demonstration by Jean of some weapons _kata_ , and Zoe walks over to him as the students head toward the dressing rooms. Jean feels his stomach brace itself against nerves, and when she smiles they get worse.

"How do you feel about children?" she asks.

Jean is taken aback, "I'm sorry?"

"Children's classes," she amends, "I could use a hand with them three times a week. We're just finishing up for the year, but I'd always love an extra eye at grading." She winks.

"Uh," Jean says, and he really is eloquent today, isn't he, "That's- that would be great!"

Zoe clasps him on the shoulders, "You've got a love for this, I can tell."

"I...Yeah," Jean can't help grinning. Connie and Sasha send him a thumbs up each from the other side of the room. He stops himself from rolling his eyes.

"That's what I'm always looking for."

"What about forms, or...something?" he adds, but she blinks his question away.

"Oh, those? Let's do them later."

Jean has a feeling this refusal to do paperwork is a usual occurrence as she starts leading him to the heavy bags in the back corner, "Let's just go through some kicks before the next class, shall we?"

And Jean can't argue. Not when he's gotten a job back where he belongs.

 

 

 

Marco never thought he had kinks. Sure, maybe the odd thing or two, but who doesn't? But this? This is a whole 'nother level. A "Jean Kirschtein in a uniform" level. Disheveled and his hair whipped out of his eyes by sweat and those gorgeous, _gorgeous_ muscles and the intensity of it all-

Standing there with Jean without tackling him and running his hands across that skin was one of the hardest things Marco's ever had to do, because as much as he enjoyed seeing Jean in the uniform, he'd much rather prefer to see Jean out of uniform. And he's just fucking screwed, isn't he?

Only, not in the literal ways he wants.

This crush is getting out of hand, fast.

 

"-a grease fire, apparently. Improper cleaning or something, the whole restaurant went down," Armin's saying to Levi, who's perched on a chair by the backdoors with a newspaper spread along his lap when Marco walks in.

"Poor fuckers," Levi mumbles. He nods to Marco.

"What's this?" Marco asks, hanging up his coat. Eren's leaning against the counter nearby, going over flash cards.

"A restaurant in Stohess burnt down a couple days ago. Grease fire," Armin tells him.

"Was anyone hurt?"

Levi grunts, "No one, as far as the paper says."

"That's lucky."

"No, it's negligent," Levi says, folding the paper, "And why this weekend's cleaning is so important." He glares at Eren, who doesn't look up. But as soon as Levi looks away, he rolls his eyes.

The door opens with a loud, "Merry Christmas!" from Ymir, who's wearing a Santa Hat. Christa comes in behind her, closing the door and smiling at Marco.

"Aren't you Jewish?" Armin asks, but she shoots him a look.

"Where's Reiner, I wanted him to wear the hat. I think he'd make a great Santa."

"Not here yet," Mikasa says, without looking up from her own textbook.

Ymir's mouth opens in a silent _no_ , as she looks to the ceiling. For a moment Marco thinks she's going to drop to her knees, but then Christa is next to her, patting her arm calmly.

"Next time, baby," she says.

But before Ymir has moved the door is once more flung open, and Reiner is standing with a different Santa hat and a rat's nest of a fake beard.

"Ho, ho-"

He's cut off by Levi, who is standing and ripping off the beard in one fell swoop, throwing it out the door, past Bert, into the snow.

"Levi!" Reiner complains.

"That health and safety hazard is not coming into this kitchen," Levi warns.

"But it's in the spirit of Christmas!"

"Some spirit," Eren says, " _You_ don't have to work on Christmas eve."

"I already did that joke," Ymir says flatly, showing him her own hat, and Reiner snaps his mouth shut, "And Eren, stop complaining, we'll have lots of fun. Christmas-y fun."

"You don't even celebrate Christmas!" he screeches.

"Will people _please_ stop telling me that? I know!"

"It'll be a good time, Eren," Christa says placating, "We always have a good time. Besides, _Marco's_ in charge."

Levi rolls his eyes, and walks away mumbling something incoherent, but Marco knows exactly why Christa is so excited about this prospect. He groans, "Do not play any more pranks on me, I'm begging you."

"I will neither confirm nor deny the possibility of pranks that night."

"Make it my Christmas present that you will not terrorize me. Is that so hard?"

Christa's answer is interrupted by Erwin coming down the stairs calling for Mikasa. She looks up from her place across from Eren, "Did you put a reservation down for a Woerman?" he asks.

"Yes, he managed to find room, someone had just cancelled for today."

Ewin's eyes find Levi.

" _That_ Woerman?" Levi asks, crossing his arms.

"The very same."

Levi sneers.

The kitchen pauses.

"...Who is this?" Marco asks.

"A leech," Levi spits, and he walks over to Erwin to see for himself the reservation list, "Who I had the _pleasure_ of going to school with."

"He's being sarcastic," Erwin says to the rest of them.

"We know," Reiner says.

"Kitts Woerman is the slime that grows along the edges of ugly, polluted ditches," Levi continues, "With a habit of poaching good chefs from upper scale restaurants and promising them better pay and better hours, and then putting that promise right up his own ass and-"

"He's a restaurateur," Erwin offers, cutting off what was most likely going to continue to be a stream of creative and inappropriate insults.

"And why's he coming here?" Marco asks.

"Because he likes to think he has friends from culinary school who he can visit and brag to."

Levi tilts his chin, "He can try, the suffering weasel."

Erwin shrugs, "Just wait," he tells Marco, "He'll want to meet you."

 

Erwin is right.

The dinner rush is just winding down when Mikasa's head appears through the kitchen door and she motions into the dining room. And Marco gets to see for himself, then, who Kitts Woerman it. He doesn't even need Mikasa to direct him to the table, because Erwin and Levi and already there along the back wall, towering over a man with a playoff-worthy beard and disturbingly empty eyes who's just finishing up his plate of duck.

"Marco," Erwin says warmly, "This is Kitts Woerman, an old classmate of Levi's."

Marco can see straight through the facade. He knows what Erwin's 'dealing with a difficult customer voice' sounds like, he's heard it enough recently.

Marco says, holding a hand, "Nice to meet you."

Woerman regards Marco, taking his hand gingerly and letting go almost immediately, "You're different than what I expected."

Marco smiles politely, "I hope in all the right ways," he charms.

Woerman doesn't react, "Your cooking is not as good as promised by your restaurant's reputation."

Marco tries to keep his smile from faltering, but he doesn't think he does a good job, "Oh."

"Marco is still developing," Levi all but growls.

"He's a professional. Shouldn't that mean all growing is done?"

Erwin smiles, "There's always room for improvement, even those of us who count ourselves among the best." Woerman seems unimpressed by the statement.

Levi crosses his arms, "What do you want here, anyways?"

Isn't that always the case, Marco thinks. Erwin gets warmer and Levi gets colder, and between the two extremes there isn't many place their victims can go except to bottleneck at the point of the conversation. What a damn power couple.

"I was curious about this place. Where "master chef" Levi had ended up," He talks with a strange gasping sort of voice, Marco thinks. Like he's dying. And his eyes never seem to focus on anything.

Woerman pats his mustache with a napkin, "I'm thinking about opening a new place in town, actually."

At this Marco can feel his face drain of colour. It's one thing to fail among friends. It's quite another to fail because of a competition. And, he thinks, a new restaurant wouldn't even consider him competition right now, not even close. Yet Kitts Woerman says this like it's nothing at all for him to come and crush all of Marco's dream in his strangely small hands.

"You little shit-" Levi starts, but Erwin puts a hand on his shoulder. Woerman looks surprised at the outburst. "Go back to the kitchen, Levi, Marco" Erwin says calmly, "I'll handle this."

"Nice to see you again, Levi," Woerman gasps, and Levi looks like he wants to kick him.

Marco doesn't want to leave, but he does anyways, watching over his shoulder as Erwin takes a seat and the smile melts off his face until there's nothing but crisp professional determination. And, perhaps under his skin, anger.

"Don't worry about this, Marco. He's all talk," Levi whispers, "Just go back to work, don't tell the others until after."

And Marco doesn't tell them. But they still ask when they see how pale he's gone.

Even Bert at one point asks what Woerman was like, and it's all Marco can do to keep his lips closed and just shake his head without dissolving into another panic attack. At the end of the night, when Marco believes Reiner is about two seconds to beating the news out of him, Erwin calls a meeting.

"I know," he says to them when everyone has a spot in the now empty dining room, "You're all curious about what happened tonight. And thank you for not forcing Marco to tell you."

There's an uneasy shuffling, but no one says anything.

"Kitts Woerman, as it turned out, stopped by to tell me he was planning to open a new restaurant in town."

"What?" Eren snaps.

Ymir grabs on to Christa," That bastard."

Erwin holds up a hand before Armin has to restrain Eren and before Bert faints across the floor, "But you'll all be happy to know I've talked him out of it."

Levi crosses his arms, "Erwin..."

"I called in a favour," Erwin says, "between restaurant owners. We don't have to worry about Woerman opening any new restaurants anywhere near here."

Marco lets out a huge breath. The rest of his team deflate with wonder, and he feels instantly guilty. If he were better, they wouldn't have to be so worried about competition. If he were better...

"Let's just worry about moving on to the new year, starting fresh, and get our feet back on solid ground," Erwin says, "and not worry about grandiose declarations by assholes during the dinner rush."

"Amen to that," Ymir says.

And Marco gets up with the rest of them to finally head home for the night, but Erwin's words have only made a dent in his worry. Especially since he turns back to Levi where he's still sitting across from Erwin as the rest of the staff leave.

And Levi looks worried.

 

 

 

Jean works at the dojo a few times over the next week, with enough time to spare to do the delivery for Marco and the other restaurants in town. Every class he feels the pulse of his muscle memory kicking back in, every kick, every small thing he notices about his student's _kata_ or their punches, everything reminds him of before. He loves it, immediately and immensely, and that scares him.

Loss is a powerful thing, and Jean is loathe to attach himself to something that might not promise to be around forever. But even so, there's a beautiful feel to being back in a teaching position. The smell of sweat and plastic and cotton, the burn of re-working old exercises. He almost wishes Christmas could just be skipped entirely, so he wouldn't have to take those few weeks off.

But he wishes Christmas would just not happen this year for other reasons, as well. He can tell his father's ignoring the whole thing entriely. There's no Christmas tree, no baking, nothing of the traditions that Jean's mom refused to miss. And all Jean thinks is that he can't wait to leave the city and have Greg Kirschtein under the care of Hannes and Rebecca, because he figures maybe wrapped up in someone else's traditions will make the absence of his all the less painful.  

But there's a metaphorical storm on the horizon that Jean assumes will break on the 24th.

He needs to stop assuming things.

 

The calls come after class a few days before the break. Jean can hear his phone ringing as they clean up for closing.

"Phone," Zoe calls from the office, "Jean, I think it's yours."

He doesn't make it in time, even with Zoe holding it out for him as he rushes in. The caller ID says "Hannes", and Jean's stomach drops.

"Something wrong?" she asks. He looks up, shaking his head.

"Uh, I...don't know," he admits. She frowns at him as he give the phone a minute before punching in the voicemail password.

" One new message," it reads out, and then Hannes' voice comes over the speaker, " _Jean, I know you're at work, but it's your dad. I think he's ok, but he's locked himself in his room. I'm not sure what to do... just...call me as soon as you get this._ "

The phone clicks itself off. He keeps his eyes on the black screen for a minute longer.

"Jean...?" Zoe says cautiously. He snaps his head up at her voice.

"I have to go," he says shortly, "I'm sorry."

"Do you need help, anything-"

"-I just need to get home," he cuts in, and he doesn't wait around for her response, or even to say goodbye.

He's in his truck before he realizes what his body's doing, messily changed into a coat and his snow boots. He takes the first corners a little sharply, and his wheels protest as the truck threatens to slide.

"No!" he bites out, and the truck straightens out. His teeth, however, stay gritted together.

 _Why_ , he thinks _, why, why, why, why?_

Why is his father like this again? Why is it Jean whose life revolves around when his father feels like living and when he feels like giving up?

Why, suddenly, is he so angry about this?

Hannes is waiting inside the kitchen door.

"Sorry, Jean, I wasn't sure what to do..."

"He's locked in?"

Hannes nods, "Should we leave him?"

Jean throws his bag on the ground, "He hasn't come out to eat, or anything? How long has he been like this?"

"A few hours."

Hannes follows Jean upstairs, watching as he checks the handle. After he knocks, and there's no response, he goes back to the kitchen, throwing open the draw of house keys and starting to dig through it. The less eye contact he makes, the less likely it is Jean will break down. That much is certain.

"He hasn't locked his door in weeks," Jean mumbles, "I thought he was getting better."

Hannes slides an envelope across the counter, and Jean pauses. There's a photograph poking out the top, and even from the backdrop Jean can tell what it is.

"The post office returned it, it had the wrong address," Hannes says, "He saw it before I could take it away..."

Jean is silent as he slides the photo all the way out into the open. It's a Christmas card, the last one they took as a family, with his mother - so thin, just starting to show the sickness eating away at her - and the address is a cousin's house with the postal code one letter off.

His mother's face looks back at him, happy in the way she was even dying. Jean aches for her to be here. He burns with it, until it reaches his stomach and it twists and scratches at his insides until the feeling bubbles up his throat.

He swallows it down.

But the drawer under his hands is wrenched from the counter, thrown on to the floor, scattering keys and tape and batteries under the table. Hannes jumps back, but Jean don't move. His breath comes in seething gasps, his hands are shaking.

"Jean?" Hannes asks.

Jean doesn't respond and he doesn't look up and his thoughts are telling him horrible things.

_Leave him in his room, then. Let him starve himself if it makes him feel better I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this-_

There's a hand suddenly on his shoulder, pulling him back to the kitchen.

"I'll handle this," Hannes says to him, "Your dad, the kitchen," he bends to Jean's eye level, "I think you should get away for a bit. Go to a friends, get your mind off this. I shouldn't have called you."

Jean blinks, "It's my responsibility-"

"-And sometimes people need a break from their responsibilities, so they aren't crushed under the weight of them."

Jean sighs, "I can't leave you-"

"You can, and you will," Hannes nods, "Now, go on. This isn't doing you or your father any good, and I have to worry about you both. Cut me some slack."

Hannes gives him a weak smile, but when Jean tries to protest again he shakes his head and all but throws Jean's coat at him, "Go. Take your laptop, watch a movie, just get away from it all for a moment, ok?"

Jean ends up sitting in the truck for twenty minutes, hoping his guilt goes away, sitting with a bag in his lap like he's been invited to some over-age slumber party. He doesn't want to call Sasha or Connie, because he knows what type of consolation they'll give him, and it's not what he needs. They know too much. So he starts the car and drives.

By the time he parks, the phone on the passenger seat is freezing, even as he starts to spin it around in his palms. He stops, flicks through the contacts under her stops at Marco.

The phone rings.

"Hello?" Marco answers immediately, and Jean wonders at his first stroke of luck that Marco might have the night off.

"...Would you mind if I came over?" Jean asks, and Marco chuckles at the other end.

"Hello, Jean. Nice to hear from you, I'm doing fine."

Jean lowers his head, "...Sorry, I didn't mean to sound so rude."

Marco's laughter dies, "Are you alright?"

"...No?"

"...Ok."

"I need a place to not think about things for a second...and I thought maybe you wouldn't mind if I came over? For a movie, or something," he mumbles.

"Of course," Marco says, "When can you get here?"

"...I'm here now."

 

Marco doesn't ask questions. He opens the door and Jean welcomes the warm air that welcomes him. He didn't notice it then, but now all he can think about is how cold his house was when he left it. Marco's home is bright and warm, and Jean likes it more now that he's not having an allergic reaction.

"I didn't notice last time, but your house is ridiculously nice. Like I thought."

Marco rolls his eyes as he takes Jean's coat, "I thought you might bring that up."

"Night off?"

"For once, yeah."

Jean sighs, "I'm sorry to disturb it, then."

Marco smiles kindly, "You aren't bothering me. I enjoy your company."

"...thanks."

"You want anything?"

Jean shakes his head. Then he waits a moment before his mouth decides to spit out, "I just...couldn't be home right now. My dad, he's...he's having a hard night. Missing my mom..."

Marco nods, "You're welcome to stay however long you like, Jean."

Jean rubs the back of his neck, "That's ok?"

"Of course."

"I thought we could just, I don't know. Watch a movie or something?"

Marco grins, "No drunken shenanigans?"

Jean tries to smile, "For once I think I'd rather have a quiet night, hanging out with you."

Marco turns away, but not before Jean notices a pleased smile just catching at the corner of his mouth, "I don't have many DVDs or anything."

"I brought my laptop, mind if I take the couch?"

The living room Jean hasn't seen, and it's got a huge sectional couch and a wall of windows looking over the ravine. There's blankets in messy piles and potted plants that could use some water and a few pieces of artwork hung up on the walls. It's very grown up for someone so young, Jean thinks.

Beside the couch is a table with framed photos of Marco with a lovely older woman without freckles and two identical girls who are tugging at his arms while he smiles.

"Your sisters?" Jean asks.

"Oh, yeah. Twin troublemakers," Marco says fondly, "I love them to death, but they drive me insane."

"And your mom?" Jean asks quietly.

"...Yeah."

Jean nods, than hands his laptop over to Marco to start up while he digs out the power cord.

"You have something to connect this to the TV?" Jean asks, ignoring the pain in his chest as he thinks of mothers.

"Don't think so..."

"You mind watching something on this tiny screen?"

Marco shrugs, and watches Jean's laptop boot up.

"What's this?" he asks, motioning to his desktop photo, where Connie and Sasha are squishing him on both sides while the Eifel Tower juts up above them.

Jean sits, "It's from when I was studying in France, when I met those two."

"I didn't know you studied in France."

Jean shrugs, "For my last year of undergrad, yeah. On an exchange."

Marco grins, "That's amazing. They told me about backpacking, but I didn't know that's where you met them."

"What's so amazing about it, you studied cooking in France, didn't you?" Jena says, fitting the power cord into the side of the laptop.

"Yeah, but it's not - "he shuffles, "I didn't really get to go with my friends. It's different when you're a teenager in the middle of a bunch of adults who dislike you."

"When you're a child prodigy who can, like, scale fish faster than they can scramble eggs."

"That's a bad example."

"Oh, excuse me," Jean says jokingly, "That I don't know all your fancy cooking terminology. Be glad I even know what scaling a fish is."

Marco laughs, delightedly, and switches to French. His accent is definitely Belgian, "I should talk to you in French more often, since you lived there you're probably used to it."

Jean scoffs. As if Marco wasn't attractive enough, now Jean gets to add the wonderful picture of him speaking _French_ of all the damn romantic languages, to his head. In English he says, "Don't go out of your way. You sound... _not French_."

Marco laughs, "I know. Too European for my own good."

"...That's where I started teaching Connie and Sasha karate, in France. The university let me teach classes to students, and they snuck in."

"Sounds just like them."

Jean scoffs, "Now look at them, they're black belts and everything," he can't help the fondness that creeps in.

Marco smiles serenely and taps on the screen lightly, "Do you have more pictures?"

"You want to see them?"

"Of course I do. I love France."

Jean pulls the laptop into his lap and Marco scoots closer on the couch. Jean pretends not to notice. He opens the first picture in the folder and starts clicking through them.

"Here's more of Sasha and Connie, when I met them on the train...sleeping on the train...waking the rest of the train up..." There's pictures from school, and he points out the dojo, and his dorm room. There's pictures of the streets at night, when Marco smiles fondly, nostalgically. When they go through the photos of Paris, Marco makes him stop so he can point out restaurants along the streets where he went to eat, or the ones run by chefs he met. He looks besotted with the images, like even though he complains about it, he loved the country immensely.

But there's a reason Jean never goes through these pictures, and on his next click he remembers why. His stomach drops.

The image is of him, smiling for once, with an arm draped around the shoulders of a beautiful, beautiful French boy named Henri.

_Oh, fuck._

In the instant he sees his mouth forms this wonderful, glossed over statement something along the lines of _just another one of my friends_ , and for a glorious moment he thinks he's gotten away with it.

But Marco is a meddler.

"Who was that?" he says innocently, and Jean doesn't look up.

"Just someone I hung out with at school. Henri. Here, there's a couple pictures of Connie and I when we went to Versailles-"

"You look really happy."

And Jean, reluctantly, clicks back to the picture. He has to admit, Marco's not wrong. For a moment there, he actually was happy.

"Yeah, well," Jean says flatly.

"Were you together?"

Jean's head snaps up. Marco's face is benignly curious, like it wouldn't matter either way. Jean realizes that he doesn't know Marco's sexuality at all - is _he_ gay? Straight? Should Jean have been paying more attention? Is Marco going to hate him if Jean tells him the truth?

So Jean does what he does best.

"What? No-" he says.

Deny, deny, deny.

"...kind of. Not really."

Marco raises an eyebrow, "Are you going to pick one of those, or is it more of a multiple choice thing?"

Jean rubs his hand through his hair, looking away "...my dad didn't approve."

And Marco's face, when he looks back, falls.

"My mom was ok with it, but when my dad found out..." Jean says quickly, "He wasn't a fan, ok? So nothing happened."

"With your dad?"

"With Henri. We broke up - stopped...being...sort of together," Jean offers awkwardly.

Marco still looks serious. Still looks almost...hurt.

"And what happened with your dad?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," says Marco curtly, "Did he get over it?"

And Jean feels his patience start to wane, "Get over what? A single crush on a guy doesn't make me... _anything_. It just didn't happen. It's fine. My mom tried talking to him, but she couldn't get through."

"No it's not fine, Jean," Marco says forcefully, "How can it be fine? You live with him, how can you be ok with knowing he doesn't accept you, _all_ of you?"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Marco," Jean warns darkly.

"Pretty sure I do. I know what it feels like when your father looks at you like he can't believe he's your son, like he believes what you feel is _wrong_ and you can't stop it!"Marco is nearly on his feet.

Jean seethes, "He never did that! He just doesn't-" he falters, "can we just stop this?! I've had enough of my father for one night!"

"I can't believe you're letting this go," Marco spits, "When he needs to understand-"

And Jean is on his feet, the laptop, falling on to Marco as Jean stands, "Don't tell me, Marco Bodt, what my family goddam _needs_ , alright?! Don't you _dare_."

He gestures angrily to the laptop, where it sits in Marco's lap, and where Marco's eyes are wide.

"There's a dozen pictures in that folder, and I remember the last fucking one, because that was the day he called me to tell me my mother was dying. And you know what happened, Marco? I came home. I had two more weeks and I left early, subleting my fucking apartment, I moved back home to watch my mother die two months later when I was supposed to be graduating. I watched my father stop _living_ ," Jean's voice breaks, "For months after. When he wouldn't eat anything. Wouldn't say anything. Couldn't get out of bed," he's shaking, "And I did what I fucking had to do to get the bills sent in and the farm together and keep my father from starving himself to death to follow after my goddam mother!" 

He might be crying. He can't tell anymore.

"So don't _tell me_ that what he needs is another reminder of my her. Of when she tried to convince him that I was still me, no matter who I loved. Or for me to put him through anything else that might break him again! Not when I came over here..." he's breaking, he can feel it, "because he's.. God, I just needed things to not be the fucked-up mess they are, just for a few hours!"

And he just squeezes his eyes closed and grits his teeth together and tries not scream, just scream, about all of it, no words.

But the next thing he feels in that angry darkness is hands. Marco's hands, coming to very gently settle on top of his. When Jean looks down he realizes that his hands have turned into fists, his nails digging into his palms, muscles tight. He feels the damp sign of blood is his palms and the _fight, fight, fight_ in his veins. He thinks of the drawer full of keys, and he pauses.

"Jean," Marco says, very softly, "Please,"

Jean breathes out all in a rush when he sees Marco's hands are shaking, too, and his eyes are not just wide they are frightened. Frightened, because Jean has so much training and so much potential to _hurt,_ that anger, or any of his emotions uncontrolled, is a threat.

 _Not to Marco_ , Jean thinks, _Never to Marco. Not ever._

His fists unclench under Marco's fingers.

"I'm so sorry, Jean," Marco says. He doesn't move away, his voice so quiet, "I don't have the words, but I am. So sorry."

Jean can really feel the tears now, so he doesn't resist when Marco gently tug on his wrists until Jean's kneeling on the floor and Marco can wrap his arms around him.

"God, I'm pathetic," Jean sobs into Marco's shoulder.

"Never. You could never be pathetic," Marco whispers.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for."

Against Marco's shoulder, Jean can feel his hands against Marco's back, something solid. Solid and  kind and willing to stay right there. There's probably blood getting on his shirt, but Marco isn't complaining. Marco's hands settle on the back of Jean's neck, fingers overlapping just lightly against his hair, as Marco tilts his head down against Jean's.

Breathe, Jean. Breathe. Another. And Another.

You'll make it through this. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

His tears stop. And he's so very, very glad that it's Marco under his hands, because he thinks that anyone else and he'd be stubborn enough to move away. But Marco doesn't move. Jean doesn't move. Jean doesn't want to move. He wants to be comforted like this because there's no one else he can ask for it.

No one else he wants to ask.

"Did your father say that to you?" Jean mumbles into the edge of Marco's shirt. Marco knows what he means.

"...Yeah," Marco whispers into his hair.

"I'm sorry, Marco."

"...His words don't feel the same anymore, not like they used to. But I remember what they _did_ feel like, back then."

Jean grips him tighter, "You don't ever deserve that."

"Thanks, Jean," Marco breathes.

"I want you to stay like you are," Jean whispers, "Prodigy or not."

He pulls away to look at Marco, and he feels Marco hands almost hesitate to let him go.

"Stay _Marco_."

Marco leaves one hand against his neck, and Jean feels the thumb just brushing his ear. Warm hands. Marco closes his eyes and breathes out slowly.

"I want you to be happy, Jean."

There's most in those words than just a general statement, Jean knows.

He hesitates, looks at Jean under his lashes like he's nervous, "I wish I could do something. I wish -" his eyes drop.

Jean wants to tilt up Marco's chin, but he holds back his hands.

"I wish I could _change_ things."

Jean smiles, sadly, "I know."

"But we deal with things the way they are, right?" Marco meets his gaze again, "I don't know about fate, or predestined stuff, or whatever, but maybe some things..."

"...Maybe," Jean agrees.

He thinks about that a lot. About his mother dying so soon, about finding himself back here. About dealing with his dad. About the good in the world, and the pieces of that world he's seen but the others that he hasn't. The pain he now knows and what will come later. All these different pieces and no corners to make a frame of them, no table to dump out the box and sort them.

Jean's always been shit at puzzles.

"One day I'll work it out," he tells Marco, and Marco looks so heartbroken at it, at how this day is in the future, and it seems so far to Jean, "All of it...my dad, too."

Marco leans forward, and Jean's breathe catches, but Marco simply closes his eyes and bumps his forehead with Jean's for a heartbeat. Just long enough for Jean to feel warm and safe and calm, and then back to how he usually feels as Marco pulls away. Scared.

And then Marco is standing, and he's turning to Jean. And maybe he feels a little less scared with Marco still there, in the doorway.

"Will you come with me to the kitchen?," he asks, and Jean looks surprised, "I think I'd like to make you something."

 

Jean sits on the counters of Marco's kitchen and he watches. The kitchen itself is a mastery of stainless steel and professional tools. There's only the stove light and the line of lights along the breakfast counter, and when everything is this dim Jean feels so small and so safe, like he and Marco have the only light in world.

Marco moves so softly at the stove with a spatula in hand. Everything about his movement is fluid, calming, practiced.

"My mom," Marco says gently, "Taught me my first recipe."

Jean leans his head back against the counter and listens.

"I'm from Jinae, you know, and it gets cold up there. My mom never liked winter much, but she liked making hot chocolate when it snowed," he looks over at Jean and smiles, " _Real_ hot chocolate."

"No powder?" Jean says.

"No powder."

Marco stirs the chocolate on his stove, a small bowl in a larger bowl of water. Jean never knew why people did that when they baked, but his voice sounds all wrong to him right now and he doesn't ask.

"Right when your mom died," Marco says, "What did you do?"

Jean closes his eyes.

"...I slept. Or, I guess, I tried to sleep. I didn't get out of bed for a few days." Detached, so _tired_ those days where the grief sunk against his ribs and clawed its way into every capillary so it pumped through his veins with each individual heartbeat. "And then one day I climbed out of bed and I went through pictures and I called the house to hear her answer when the machine picked up, and I cried," Jean whispers.

Marco doesn't say anything.

"But I got hungry eventually, I guess, and when I left my room the house was just...it was dead, too. My father wouldn't get out of bed and all our food was rotten or gone. They say people make you food after funerals but I guess every one of our family friends thought the other would bring something and no one brought anything," he sighs. Twice. Breathes, "And I ate buttered noodles at the table in the dark and I realized that my dad was still grieving and I would have to step up."

Marco leans next to him on the counter, "But you didn't finish grieving?" he asks.

Jean turns, "What do you mean?"

"You were so worried about your dad, but did you worry about _you?_ "

Jean blinks, "There were other things-"

"I know," Marco cuts in softly, "But...what did you do to work through losing her, after that night?"

"...I...." Jean looks at his hands, and he realizes the answer. He doesn't say it.

"Jean," Marco says, so close, "If you want to talk about her, ever. I'll listen. I didn't know her, and I wish I could have....but I'll listen anyway. If that's going to help..."

Jean closes his eyes, and he tries to breathe the welling up in his chest away, but it only pushes it farther up. Distantly, he hears Marco turning off the stove, and then there's a tentative hand again on his shoulder.

He doesn't want to look, but his hand grabs at the front of Marco's shirt to keep him there.

"She would have liked you," he manages, "she would have adored you so fucking much."

"Tell me about her," Marco says.

And Jean does. He tells Marco about her laugh and her jokes and the childhood stories he has where she saved him from his own stupidity. How that became more of a habit the older he got. How she forgave him for everything. Every thought he had about her since the funeral, everything he would have called her about. Everything he wishes he could talk to his dad about, but everything that his dad isn't ready to hear. Jean expected to forget thing tonight, to ignore them. But instead, he's remembering.

He talks and Marco listens. And it feels so nice.

It feels like catharsis.

 

Jean's hands are still shaking when Marco takes the empty mug from them gently. Back on the couch, he's curled into a ball, wrapped up, but his eyes are dry. Red. Tired. But dry.

"I'll miss her this Christmas," he tells Marco, "I'm worried my dad won't know what to do without her. Even when he has Hannes and Rebecca with him," Jean sighs, "And I feel guilty that I want to spend time away from him, guilty that even when she's not here, I want to enjoy some part of the holidays."

Marco curls opposite Jean, feet nudging his unintentionally, and staying there regardless.

"What about New Years?" Marco says.

"What about it?"

He shrugs, "Come and stay with my family for a few days."

"...Seriously?"

"Seriously. The cottage is on the way to Jinae, I could pick you up. Just for two nights, then I have to head home to work, but..."

Jean ducks his head, "You won't want me around this New Years, Marco. I'm not going to be any fun."

"Do you want to go?" Marco insists.

Jean looks up, "...what do you mean?"

"If you want to go, Jean, if you think it might help...then come with me."

Marco wishes he could reach closer and grab Jean's hand, but even though he now knows that Jean wouldn't mind his gender, Marco won't push any limits. Not anymore, not tonight.

Jean closes his eyes, and he's silent for so long, Marco thinks he's fallen asleep.

"...Yeah."

Marco nearly jumps. Jean's voice is so sleep-mumbled, but it's still clear.

"Yeah, I'd love to."

And then Marco is almost certain Jean's asleep. His shoulders relax, his head lolls back against the arm rest, and all Marco can do is grab the extra comforter from his bedroom and lay it out across Jean on the couch.

He stands for a moment, remembering a time not long ago when he was looking back at Jean curled in his own bed, and imagining climbing back to join him. And Marco thinks about his cold bed, the distance between him and Jean, and makes his decision. He climbs on to the couch pulling the comforter over himself as well. And he falls asleep to the sound of Jean's even breathing.

Everything tonight, he thinks, can wait until tomorrow morning.

Until New Years.

New Years, with Jean by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melodramatics!!!
> 
> Next time: It's Christmas in August, which means its time to meet the Bodts! But The new year will bring in more than either Jean or Marco expect...and they might not be ready for it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas for Marco and Jean - but nothing exactly goes as planned. And the closer they become, the more things around them fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, hello and Happy Holidays!! It has been a long time, and I want to apologize yet again for the delay. You all seemed very worried for my sake which is very kind of you, but I was detained by a very busy term. I'll be graduating in four months, and the university is determined to be the most stressful place possible until then. Luckily, the delay has caused the Christmas chapter to be released just before Christmas :) So happy holidays, this is my gift to you.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful proofreader C, who reread the whole series in order to better give me feedback, you are a lovely person and I'm so glad for your help :) 
> 
> And thank you to my commentors youreyestheyglow, wingsofbadass, YoiteMichealis, c_tristesse, NagisaHazuki, BobhasRainbowVeins, and of course (though your username has recently changed) Dorian, especially because you asked after my well being, which was very nice of you. And to my tumblr commentors, who are going to remain anonymous, but I sent messages back for you (I hope you got them...) to tell you how nice your comments were to read. Thank you for all the lovely support :)
> 
> Please come and visit me at my tumblr, comments are always welcome, it's http://oxfordandmischief.tumblr.com/. 
> 
> Happy Holidays!
> 
> EDIT: the spacing in this one is all messed up, sorry about that. I have, however, fixed the scene changes on request :)

Summary (it's been a while): 

The end of the year sees Jean taking a break from his martial arts job to stay with Hannes and Rebecca at their cottage with his father. Dreading the experience, and angry at his father for locking himself up in his room, Jean agrees to Marco's invitation to stay with his family for New Years. Marco, who is left in charge of the 104 kitchen for Christmas Eve, is especially looking forward to it, knowing that his crush on Jean is not going away the more he spends time with the sad boy who's Christmas is going to be a nightmare...

 

 

Chapter 7:

 

"Ready to go?"

Hannes is closing the door of his car, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he walks over to Jean. It's still dark. The porch light mixes with the light from inside the car, dim and uninviting in the bitter cold. It's moments like these that Jean wishes he smoked, if only to have something burning in his hands. Instead, he grips his travel mug through his gloves like a lifeline and tries not to make eye contact.

 

"I think so."

 

Hannes sighs, "I told you, you don't have to feel guilty about it, Jean." 

 

Jean flushes, "I'm not."

 

"No? Why won't you look me in the eye?"

 

Jean pauses and then shrugs, "...Should've been back earlier."

 

Hannes folds his arms, and Jean finally looks up at him, "Come on, bud."

 

Jean wishes he didn't feel guilty, but lately that's his default setting. He'd left Marco's early, coming home to find Hannes asleep on the couch and his father's door closed, but no longer locked.

 

Despite protests that Hannes hadn't minded sleeping there, and that Rebecca was not about to take Jean's head for leaving all the work to Hannes and ditching out to sleep on a friend's couch (asleep with said friend, but that's not important), Jean felt like he'd run away. Run away from something important that he was supposed to do, and that he was all too pleased to leave behind him.

 

"I think I feel worse that I'm going to do it again," Jean mumbles.

 

"When you're going to your friend's for New Years? Jean," Hannes says, "You need to do whatever you need to get through these holidays, ok? Sometimes," and Hannes smiles a little as he says it, "You have to stop caring about other people so damn much and do what's best for you."

 

Jean breathes out.

 

The front door crashes open, and Greg Kirschstein stomps out, followed by Rebecca.

 

"Who's ready for a road trip, eh?" she says brightly, and Jean remembers that she's always been a morning person and hates her only a little bit for it.

 

Greg digs himself further into his scarf, "You ready, Jean?"

 

If there's anyone's eyes Jean hasn't met, it's his father's. But Greg hasn't said anything about that, not in the past week.

 

Not in the past few months.

 

The four of them pile in, Jean curling up in a corner of the back seat.

 

His mind tells him it's almost Christmas, but there's no reaction.

 

It tells him he'll see Marco in a few days, and he closes his eyes, suddenly weary. Unsure if he can make it. And dreading a little bit that spark of excitement at his anticipation.  

 

 

 

The cottage is a few hours away, driving along the narrow two-laned highways of the rural parts of the province. The roads are decently clear, at least, though the sun never breaks out from behind the thick layer of clouds suggesting more snow. Rebecca drives, fiddling with the radio to find the most optimal upbeat Christmas music, as if she's trying to get the gloom out of the backseat through song alone.

 

Jean wants to put in his headphones and sleep through the holiday.

 

His father doesn't say a word, watching the trees through the window.

It's still early when they pull onto the dirt driveway through the woods, the cottage appearing through the trees on the edge of the slope down to the water. It's frosted with snow like some fairytale illustration.

 

His mom would've loved it.

 

Jean has a moment of brief loathing towards it.

 

Hannes ducks inside while the others unload the car, trying to get a fire started in the wood stove to warm up the interior. Jean misses the artificial warmth of the car cabin as his fingers immediately go numb.

 

"Jean!"

 

He turns to find Rebecca, skates in hand, coming through the door.

 

"What do you say?" she says, gesturing to them.

 

"Right _now_?"

 

"Of course, come on, your skates are in the trunk."

 

Jean looks at his father, who's ducking in behind Rebecca with a crate of food. Greg shrugs, "Why not? We're on holiday, right? I'll get the rest."

The lake is just down the narrow stairs out back of the cottage, the ones with snow piled precariously high on the steps and the railings glittering with frozen rain. In the shadow of the trees it's a bright, gaping portal in the distance, with the dock jutting out on to the surface, frozen in place.

 

Rebecca gets there first, digging in her pockets for a key to the shed where they keep the shovels.

 

"Thought you might like some time in the open air," she says to him with her back turned, "Might turn your spirits around."

 

Jean shuffles, "I'm sorry, Rebecca."

 

"For what?" The shed opens with some complaint.

 

"For being a mopey asshole?"

 

"Creative," she says, "But not the words I would have chosen."

 

"Sorry."

 

"Stop saying that," she emerges, shovel in hand, and points with it to the dock, "We invited you here, knowing full well it's the first Christmas without Josephine," Jean winces at his mother's name, "But that's ok. I... miss her, too, you know."

 

Jean hugs himself, rubbing his arms through his coat sleeves, "I know," he mumbles.

 

"I'm just better at hiding it," Rebecca says, scraping off a section for both of them to sit, "Now, come on. The lake awaits. Lace up."

 

Jean hasn't been on skates in ages. He's rickety and unsteady, and Rebecca laughs as he keeps falling into piles of snow. She snaps pictures with her phone of him face down, crystals still caught in his hair, flipping her off when he catches her with the phone out. Her fingers go white when she takes off her mittens to touch the screen. They take turns shovelling a pathway for them to skate until they reach the area of the lake where others have been, clear enough that it doesn't inhibit their strokes.

 

The lake is more beautiful than the cottage. It's grey and silent, soft to look at and hard to touch, bitter. His legs are going cold, his breath clouds and swirls, and he remembers the first time he noticed the cold this year. Waiting in the alleyway of a restaurant he didn't know. Watching the mist part to reveal Marco Bodt in his ridiculous shoes.

 

He smiles to himself. Marco would love this, he imagines. He'd laugh at Jean's clumsy attempts to skate - being a complete jerk about how he could skate better than Jean.

But Marco would be there every time he fell. No doubt.

 

"Who are you thinking about?"

 

Rebecca's turned around, watching him carefully. Jean blushes.

 

"No one."

 

"You looked very happy."

 

"That's ridiculous-"

 

"- _Lovesick_ , even."

 

"Rebecca," Jean warns.

 

She holds out her arms, "You can tell me, Jean. Who else in the world is out here right now?"

 

And for some reason, he wants to say. He wants to admit to Rebecca all those horrible fears in his gut that grow every time he sees Marco, thinks about him. Those terrifying things that Jean wants to believe aren't happening. Not again.

 

"...I was thinking about a friend," Jean says, without thinking, "but I'm not _lovesick_ , that's ridiculous."

 

She tilts her head, "Are you sure?"

 

"Yes!" Her eyes widen. Jean snaps his mouth shut, "I didn't mean to yell."

 

"...Are you afraid, Jean?" she says quietly, and Jean winces.

 

"No."

 

"...Are you lying?"

 

He skates past her, saying nothing.

 

"If you ever need to talk," she says, "I'm here."

 

He turns to look at her over his shoulder, and he knows she can see every single fear on his face in that moment. But she only smiles at him, skating up to him and lacing their arms together. She's a warm body on his arm, and he appreciates it.

 

He appreciates everything about her, right now. Especially her words. Even if everyone keeps offering to talk, and he's not sure he's ready for that. Not yet.

 

 

 

Jean dreams.

 

In this dream, he can feel Henri's hands on him. There's breath and heat and Jean's head tilts back as somewhere in his mind he remembers this. Henri's eyes find his, and Jean sighs.

 

But then the feeling vanishes, and Jean scrambles away as somewhere in the background the sounds of another person make themselves known.

 

 _Jean!_ his father calls out.

 

And Jean all but kicks Henri away, he doesn't look back, he is running and running, frightened. But these streets are Parisian, and it's been so long that Jean doesn't remember where he's going, he doesn't remember the alleyways he finds himself in. His father is chasing him, and Jean needs to get away, he has to keep running, he can't stop or all of this truth will catch up with him-

 

The next moment there's feet running beside him, decked in bright blue running shoes, and Jean follows the legs and the torso until he's looking at Marco watching him, smiling.

 

 _Where are we running to?_ he asks cheerfully, and Jean doesn't know.

 

So Marco takes his hand. His stride carries Jean along until the streets burn with gold from the street lamps and their reflections in puddles and glass, and there's no one chasing them. Jean watches Marco.

 

Jean doesn't open his mouth, but Marco answers the question in his head, anyways.

 

_We're going where no one will find us._

 

For what?

 

And Marco stops slowly in the narrow side street where the light barely reaches, turning to Jean.

 

 _You know,_  he whispers.

 

Jean doesn't know, but he wants to. The answer is very close.

 

Marco is very close.

 

And Marco no longer is holding his hand, now he's holding Jean's waist. The sensation of intimacy from earlier, with Henri, has come back, only much stronger. Marco invades his space, and Jean lets him. He pulls Marco closer.

 

Tell me.

 

Marco grins, and the grin is small but he's so close it seems to spread across every inch of his face.

 

_I'll show you._

 

Jean shudders. Marco leans. There's a sigh against lips and then there is no room for any breath between Marco's mouth and Jean's.

 

There's nothing in the world but Marco kissing him.

 

Then there's nothing at all.

 

The dream ends.

 

 

 

 

Christmas Eve dawns cold and grey.

 

Jean lies under the weight of the worn quilts covering his borrowed bed, enjoying the weight of them, the warmth, and hating the rest of the world in this very moment.

 

With as little movement as possible he digs his phone out from under his pillow. There's three messages. The first two are from Connie and Sasha, typical, and the third is from Marco Bodt. It just says "Merry Christmas, hang in there :)".

 

Jean rolls over until the screen is squashed under his chest and sighs. He wants his mom to come into the room and wake him up. He wants somebody to be beside him, under these same covers, throwing an arm around his middle, nose pressed into his shoulder, warm and unspoken. He imagines opening his eyes just enough to see the soft freckles across broad shoulders.

 

Merry Christmas, Jean Kirschstein. You're dreaming about falling in love.

 

When he finally gets enough motivation to crawl out of bed, it's to find the living room warm and smelling of wood smoke and cinnamon. Hannes is rolling out cookie dough while Rebecca decorates a tree that Jean swears was not there the night before, and one of them has connected an iPod to speakers so there's enough ambient holiday cheer to make Jean nauseous.

 

"Merry Christmas," Hannes says from his place at the counter, "Sleep well?"

 

Jean falls on the couch, curling himself under the throw blanket. His toes are cold under his socks already. He wonders what would happen if he just told them what he was dreaming about. He wonders if his dad would hear him.

 

"Fine," he says.

 

Rebecca sits next to him. His head lolls against the couch, but enough that he can look over at her wearily.

 

"You want to help decorate?" she says softly, "You can say no. I won't be insulted."

 

Jean looks at the glitter covering her hands, the coloured glass in the box in her lap. He thinks about the texture of the pine tree behind them and he remembers his mother reacting badly to the sap every year and yet always insisting she got to decorate along with her family. And he swallows the lump in his throat.

 

"Yeah, alright," he manages.

 

They don't have a lot of decorations, it turns out. Jean wonders where they even packed them, in the over-loaded car on the way up here. But there's enough that he feels the ghost of hands on his shoulders, the whisper of _that's great, Jean, what a lovely tree this year_ from a person who is no longer there to see it. The needles feel familiar and hostile all at once, as if they're slicing his skin. There's no blood.

 

"What do you think?" Rebecca says, standing back as Jean slips the last plastic icicle on a hook. They both stand back, Hannes comes over with his hands covered in flour and kisses Rebecca on her cheek.

 

"It looks wonderful, darling."

 

Jean stares at the tree until Rebecca rubs a hand down his back and gives him a small, sad little smile.

 

"Jean?"

 

He tries to say something, but ends up shutting his mouth before any sound of the sudden pain in his chest escapes.

 

"How about something to eat?" Hannes suggests, "Cinnamon rolls?"

 

Jean shakes his head, trying to smile, "Not really hungry."

 

"Just something to drink then," Rebecca says decidedly, and Jean lets himself be ushered to the table for a cup of hot chocolate.

 

He regrets agreeing to this. Because all the Christmas spirit the Kirschstein family had has been sucked up into the black hole of loss and grief and barely-concealed issues that glitter and carols aren't going to solve anytime soon, and that black hole is swallowing up Rebecca and Hannes' Christmas.

 

They are quiet at the kitchen table, quiet enough that the sound of the front door closing makes them all look up. Rebecca and Hannes share a look, then they are both out of their chairs.

 

Jean frowns, "Was that dad?"

 

Hannes gets on his coat, "It's probably fine."

 

Rebecca leaves for a moment and comes back into the kitchen, "He took his coat, and his boots."

 

Jean feels his stomach sinking, "What, he just left?"

 

"I'm going to go and see," Hannes says, "Don't worry, Jean, he probably just went for a walk. Just wait here, I'll be right back."

 

But there's something tense and serious between Rebecca and Hannes, until the door closes and Rebecca is left trying to smile happily but failing.

 

"How about a movie?" she says, falsely bright.

 

He lets her put on the Grinchand plant him on the couch, but there's an undercurrent of cold air down Jean's spine and he's not paying attention. From where he's sitting he can see the door, and he keeps waiting for Hannes and his dad to walk through it.

 

They don't.

 

Not for a full hour, and then it's only Hannes who bustles in, shivering. He refuses to meet Jean's eyes.

 

"He's gone through the woods. I don't know..." he coughs, "...I don't know where, exactly."

 

"He just left?" Jean says, "Just _left_ in the middle of the day?"

 

Hannes shrugs, "Jean..."

 

"Where would he go?! What could he possibly be thinking?!"

 

"It's alright-"

 

"It's not!" Jean roars, "God, it's just so not right, not on Christmas, not today, just..." he feels the cracks, the splinters digging in, "Not today."

 

Suddenly he hates the tree and he hates the movie and the smell of cinnamon and he hates the holidays because how can he celebrate when his mom isn't here and how can his dad, the one piece of the puzzle that maybe could still fit into this picture properly, not be willing to stay and try to keep together the broken, jagged edge that the Kirschstein family has become.

 

And he realizes that maybe his dad doesn't fit anymore. Maybe Jean doesn't fit anymore. Maybe there was something else that happened when his mom died that bent and frayed and destroyed the edges of what family once was to Jean, and now he's never ever going to find that one fit again. That messy, annoying, beautiful fit that was his family. That's gone.

 

Jean doesn't cry and he doesn't scream. He slowly turns off the movie, he doesn't meet Rebecca's eyes.

 

He sits on the couch until one of them moves, and then he says quietly, "I'm going to go skating."

 

The _alone_ is implicit.

 

"Keep your phone with you?" Hannes says, and all the acknowledgement Jean can muster is a nod.

 

 

 

On Christmas, the lake is empty and the sky is so very close. It is close enough that when it sighs the snow comes down and burns with softness. The flakes get larger and larger and swallow up the edges of the shore and the ice, and all that there is, is silence and coldness and the aching, growing, cavernous expanse of Jean's heart.

 

All that there is, is the fear that Jean is no longer enough. Not for his father. Not for Marco. Not for anything in this world.

 

All that there is, is the sky falling closer.

 

He stays until his phone buzzes and when he tries to hit the buttons realizes his fingers have gone numb and where he's lying on the ice his skin is tingling and sore.

 

"Check out what Sasha got me" it reads, from Connie. There's a picture attached of a magnificent Nerf gun and a massive bag of bullets that Jean knows will hit someone in the eye before the night's up. Jean finds himself just barely tilting his mouth into a smile, but it feels a bit lighter. A bit better. His phone goes off again.

 

"Are you coming back?" the text says, from Rebecca.

 

Jean takes his time, but he goes even when the concept of leaving the lake seems dismal at best. Rebecca meets him inside the door.

 

"He's not back, but we were getting worried about you. You look half-frozen."

 

Jean shrugs, "I am half-frozen."

 

So Rebecca thaws him out in front of the stove, and they stay there with Hannes and have Christmas dinner on the floor, quietly. His skin burns, this time with a great deal more pain than he realizes, but eventually his toes stop complaining and the lights get dim and there's something tragically comfortable and nostalgic about the scene that Jean sighs. He thinks of the laughter that Sasha and Connie are probably sharing, the excitement of it all. He wonders if he's ever going to get to feel that again.

 

"She would have liked this," he says.

 

Rebecca and Hannes pause, and he can tell neither of them know what to say. Either Jean wants to reminisce or he wants to leave it at that, and guessing wrong could end badly. Jean wishes he weren't such a fucking puzzle all of a sudden to other people.

 

Both of them are spared by the sound of the door opening. They all look up as Greg Kirschstein stumbles in, and it's Jean that gets up first.

 

"Where were you?" he says quietly.

 

Greg coughs, "...I went for a walk."

 

"Where?" Jean is firm, he's insistent.

 

"...Around the lake."

 

Jean looks at his father like he wants to demand more, but instead all he does is walk to the kitchen and get a plate for him, filling it with food. His father takes off layers, and by the time he's done Jean thrusts it at him, watching as the potatoes threaten to slide off the edge.

"Go sit by the fire," he mumbles.

 

Greg does what he's told. They don't say anything more about it.

 

And Jean watches the hours go by on Christmas Eve, and he thinks about how there's still something in him that wants to take care of his father. Still something that deserves to be saved. But he doesn't want to drag his father there. And he doesn't want to wait patiently while Greg Kirschstein covers his head with sand and Jean stands watch. Jean wants to move toward that place where people aren't so afraid of the topic of his mother anymore. He wants that one night with Marco, where his mom was the person he could think about, remember, rejoice in, again. He wants to say that she died, and that he's so very, very sad about it, but that she was the best thing in the world to him, and he's got to remember that before he remembers the hospitals and the cancer. He's got to remember her as more than a deceased relative.

 

He wants to remember her as his mother.

 

 

 

 

On Christmas morning Jean wakes up before any of them, and he wraps himself in blankets and puts on his boots and goes to stand on the porch.

 

The world is still dark and he feels like he's still half asleep. But the warmth from his bed is still trapped in the folds of blankets, and that's like a hug he's never going to get again so he appreciates it. The world is still dark.

 

He imagines his mother coming to stand beside him, silently.

 

 _It's lovely,_ she breathes in his mind.

 

It is lovely. There's new ice on the branches, new frost settling onto his skin. Jean grips the blanket harder. It's not so dark anymore. There's a little light, enough to catch in the clouds of breath. He imagines more.

 

He imagines his mom standing and watching the light seep back into the trees and the snow and the sky, and then from behind them the door sliding open. The thought is drowsy and comfortable, of Marco smiling at him, quietly coming to join the two of them. Jean would open the blankets, wrapping Marco up with him. Josephine's eyes would crinkle into a smile.

 

_L'amore._

 

But Jean stands there, alone and growing colder, until it's fully light. The sun's not visible, but it's out there, somewhere. Jean will see it eventually.

 

He goes back inside and dozes on the couch until Rebecca and Hannes ease open their door and join him. Rebecca sits on his feet.

 

"Merry Christmas," she whispers.

 

He mumbles into his comforter.

 

She only pats his knees.

 

 

 

 

Rebecca admires her new jade ring at dinner, twisting it on her finger happily, "Very lovely, darling."

 

Hannes tilts his head, "Anything for you, my dear,"

 

"You too are still sickeningly in love," Greg says, and the table pauses at his joking tone. It's been a long while since he's heard it, Jean thinks.

 

Rebecca laughs, "Ah, but you always enjoyed poking fun at that, we only continue to play it up for your benefit," Rebecca says.

 

"Mhmm," Greg concedes, draining his wine glass.

 

The gift giving was slow and quiet, Jean getting from his father new sparring gear, and from Rebecca and Hannes new sweaters, a few books. The day has felt long and stretched, and Jean can only think about tomorrow, tomorrow when he gets to go away.

 

Even though he feels awful about it, there's something about the cottage this year. Something oppressive and stifling, like he can't sit still for too long. Jean just wants to _go_.

 

"You're leaving tomorrow?" Hannes asks, scraping the last bit of gravy off his plate, "Right?"

 

Jean nods, "I'm getting picked up early,  don't know if I'll see you awake."

 

Greg coughs, "Sasha and Connie, you said?  They're picking you up?"

 

Jean refuses to meet his eyes as he lies, "Yeah, they're going up north."

 

"You'll have a great New Years," Rebecca says, and Jean is thankful the conversation continues, otherwise he'd have to listen to his lie as it settles awkwardly, "God, when I was younger I went to wild new year's parties, let me tell you-"

 

He only hears half of her anecdotes, as he shakes off his guilt. If he'd told the truth, there'd be more questions. More uncomfortable questions. And Jean doesn't need any more questions, especially not when he's not sure how he'd answer them truthfully.

 

When the house settles, another Christmas over and sleepy and nostalgic, Jean stays up after everyone has gone to sleep and he packs his bags. He sleeps only a little, feeling the stretch of restlessness under his skin, and he wonders when he stopped being in love with the holidays and started loving the routine of his life. The truck and the karate and the unmistakable smile on Marco Bodt's face whenever he sees Jean.

 

And the smile that breaks on his face whenever he sees Marco.

 

 

 

 

When Marco arrives at the kitchen it is already too warm and too loud, smelling like nutmeg and sweet bread and the marinade for the lamb they served yesterday that seems to be sticking around.

 

Ymir is standing by the stereo, which is playing Christmas jazz loudly, brandishing in one hand a meat cleaver and in the other a thin champagne flute filled with what appears to be eggnog.

 

"Please tell me that's not spiked," is the first thing he says.

 

"Merry Christmas Eve day, Chef," Ymir says in return, lifting both the cleaver and the eggnog in a terrifying toast.

 

Christa is kneading bread at her station, but she looks up when Marco speaks. When he walks close enough to hear her over the music she mumbles, "She put in about half a shot of vodka."

 

"Ymir," Marco chastises.

 

"It's Christmas, Marco, live a little."

 

"You're working," he reminds her.

 

She shrugs, downing the glass, "I won't even feel it, and you're not going to tell on me."

 

He shakes his head, heading towards the stairs, "Just go easy, ok. Levi may not be here but the kitchen still has to be standing by the time we leave."

 

"It will be," Christa promises.

 

" _And a partridge in a pear tree!_ " Ymir sings up the stairs.

 

Marco pulls out his phone after he drops his bag on his desk, scrolling until Jean's name comes up. He shoots off a quick text, locking his phone and staring at it for a moment, just hoping that Jean is going to be alright. He considers a call, but it's still early, and there's work to be done.

 

Downstairs, the music grows louder, and he can hear Ymir start singing "Santa Baby" in a sickeningly high tone. Marco meets Armin on the stairs on his way down, looking frightened.

 

"Armin, you alright?" he asks.

 

Armin shakes his head, "Merry Christmas," he says lightly, "Ymir is trying to give Christa a lap dance on the sink counter."

 

"May God have mercy on their souls when I murder them both," Marco mutters, pressing against the wall as Armin climbs past him.

 

Christa is graciously a few feet apart from Ymir when Marco walks in again, though Ymir is pouting.

 

"But darling-"

 

"Ymir," Christa warns, "You have frosting to make."

 

"I bet I could whip up something better," Ymir says, as she slides closer, "If you know what I mean."

 

"This has to stop," Marco says loudly, and Ymir only looks over her shoulder and winks, "Please," he adds weakly until Christa finally sighs and pulls away from Ymir.

 

"We should stop before his voice breaks, he's got to be here all day."

 

"Oh, come on," Ymir says normally, "it was working so well."

 

Marco leans his head against the doorframe weakly, "Stop trying to break me, I'm begging you."

 

Ymir cackles, walking to her station an pouring herself another glass of eggnog, "Would you like some, Marco? I could actually put some vodka in it this time, give you a real kick."

 

Marco is saved by Mikasa, who comes in from the dining room with the reservation printout.

 

"Merry Christmas, Marco," she says, "Would you like to go over the reservations?"

 

"Hello, Mikasa. Lay it on me. Anything I should know about?"

 

"There's a few allergies, nothing life-threatening according to the guests. Mushrooms, at seven. Shellfish at eight. Neither of which I believe is on today's menu?"

 

Marco takes the sheet from her, looking at the names. "Woerman" is graciously absent.

 

"Sounds good to me," Marco says, and she gives him a small smile before returning to the dining room.

"Marco, could you tell me what cheese we're using for that ravioli?" Christa calls from the kitchen, and Marco is sucked into the prep work, tying on his apron, laying out ingredients, a regular Christmas Eve tradition by now.

 

And he thinks of Jean.

 

 

 

 

Christmas Eve dinner at 104 is different from any other normal night in three regards.

 

The first is that there is no choice of dessert. Instead, Ymir and Christa always make a Christmas cake that contains in every one of its twelve layers particular parts of most of the other desserts so that each slice is a random assortment of flavours and icings and fruit and chocolate. The fifth layer is, of course, frosted with a small amount of edible gold leaf, so that Ymir has the excuse to sing the Twelve Days of Christmas through each of the four days of preparation the cake takes.

 

This year, the cake stands impressively large on one of the counters, surrounded by ice packs and fans to keep it cool but unable to be kept in the walk in fridge because of its size. It has sugar nests for all the birds and a silver chocolate crown on the very top, which Marco has a sneaking suspicion Christa will try to force him to wear at the end of the night toasts.

 

The second is that Levi is, of course, absent, and so Marco is very much in charge. This is normally not much of a problem, because the staff like to think themselves self-sufficient and without need of constant supervision (which is nice), but Marco has never told them that it means double the work. He's still expected to be the head chef, obviously, and at the same time is responsible for any and all disasters in the dining room and then rushing back into the kitchen to prevent the duck from burning.

 

The third is that, for once in the year, the kitchen is not focused chaos but festive chaos. And that means trouble.

 

All of the staff are wearing Christmas-themed pajamas, as is the custom, instead of their normal pants, with the exception of Marco, and Ymir has brought back the Christmas Hat. Eren is given this one night to wear converse sneakers instead of his normal dress shoes, and even he is in a good mood. Christa even turns on the jazz music again, this time lowering the volume.

 

And for once, Marco believes everything is going swimmingly.

 

Certainly the elderly patron at seven thirty who truly believed they had been given a lopsided table managed to make the scene louder than was entirely necessary after Marco accidently mentioned earthquakes, but that was not entirely his fault. And the food is being created easily and comfortably, Marco feeling assured in the measured chops of his vegetable knife and the fluid motions as he separates eggs. It's...nice.

 

He's thinking this in his kitchen at nine thirty when everything goes to hell.

 

The first thing is that there's a reason that Levi didn't let Ymir wear her hat during prep last week, and Marco should have remembered.

 

He should have remembered the flambé asparagus as she cuts behind him and he turns, the flames licking up and up and catching on the brim of her hat.

 

Mikasa opens the kitchen door, an order slip in her hand, and as she announces it, clipping it to the spinner, Christa's scream overpowers it.

 

Ymir doesn't feel the flames, but everyone else can see them. Three different people rush her, grabbing for the hat, but all everyone but Christa is pushed off balance by her desperate attempt to get to Ymir. The hat comes off with one grab, the flames threatening to catch Ymir's hair, but luckily they only singe it, and the hat is trampled by Christa's shoes. But Marco is flung into the cake's counter, and the sudden movement makes the whole masterpiece shake precariously.

 

Ymir's mouth is still hanging open after the hat incident, so it's her voice that first reaches Marco, screaming "Stop the cake!"

 

Marco turns, reaching desperately to stop the fall of the cake, and catches it barely, his hands sinking into the icing. The crown, however, flies off, landing on the next counter and knocking over the row of oils and spices until they're dripping down on the floor.

 

But everything eventually stills.

 

Marco is wrist-deep in icing and sugar, the cake stopped but partially ruined. There's a steady drip of peanut oil from the counter to the floor, and in the madness the spinner with the orders has tipped over into a cooling pan of vinaigrette, and most of the papers are now soaked with red wine. The whole kitchen smells just slightly of burnt hair.

 

"Oh thank God," Christa says finally, and no one is sure what she's most thankful about.

 

Eren gently detaches Marco and cake, Ymir won't stop shaking without Christa's hands on hers, and Marco, with icing rendering his own hands useless, tries to shake this off.

 

"Alright," he says, and the kitchen turns, "Everything is fine. Nothing is badly broken, no one's hurt?"

 

There's a general agreement.

 

"Good. Then, let's just...continue," he finishes weakly. But the kitchen starts moving again, carefully. He brushes past most of them, making his way to his office, where there's a spare set of clothes and a place to get this sugar off himself.

 

He gestures with his head to Christa to take Ymir upstairs, but she shakes her head, and he shrugs. If Ymir's ok, then he's ok.

 

Mikasa and Eren are no doubt doing damage control in the dining room, which leaves Armin to translate the wine-soaked orders, calling them out and hastily re-writing most of them himself.

 

At the sink upstairs, removed from the din of the kitchen, Marco allows himself a breath, trying to oxygenate the shakiness out of his body. Arms and hands scrubbed, he leans against the basin, closing his eyes. It could have been worse. He could have lost the whole cake rather than just parts of it, and Ymir could be going to the hospital, which would be awful. Marco can't even imagine that conversation with Erwin and Levi.

 

As if he wasn't hanging by a thin enough string.

 

There is, after all, a change of clothes in his office, and now decked out in his second-best scrubs and a new apron he makes his way downstairs. Everything looks normal once more, save for the dents in the cake that another chef is trying to cut out without losing structural stability.

 

"You alright?" he asks Ymir, stopping at her station. Christa has moved her own work to the opposite side, to better ensure Ymir's condition is not critical.

 

But Ymir only grins, "Didn't know that we were caramelizing our own chefs tonight, I thought we were leaving that to the creme brule," she says, but her voice is weaker than normal.

 

Marco shrugs, "It's a new Christmas gimmick. Something to get people talking."

 

"You know I don't even celebrate Christmas," Ymir says.

 

Marco pats her on the back, "You're sure you're alright?"

 

"I'm fine."

 

"You'll let me know?"

 

"I will."

 

And Marco, for one moment, believes they've made it out of this ok.

 

He does not notice the plate leaving the kitchen at that exact moment, because there is nothing to notice.

 

It takes ten minutes before anything happens, and by that time Marco is busy whisking flour into his gravy. The sound of the whisk against the bottom of the pan drowns out, for a minute, the sound of commotion.

 

It does not, however, drown out the sound of screaming coming from the dining room.

 

Everyone looks up, and instantly Marco has put down the gravy and turned off the burner. He's taken a step before the door bursts open and Mikasa slams into the kitchen.

 

"Epi pen?" she cries, and Marco instantly points upstairs.

 

"Erwin's office, middle drawer."

 

The kitchen is completely still when he leaves it, but the chaos seems to have leaked into the dining room. Everyone is on their feet, crowded around the centre table, where the chairs have been knocked over and a teenager not older than sixteen is on the floor, gasping as his father tries to hold him down.

 

"Someone do something!" the boy's mother yells.

 

Marco has to push people out of the way to get close enough, "Back off!" he yells, "Everyone back off _now_!"

 

He gets on the floor beside them when there's space, making enough room so that Mikasa can rush beside him, epi pen in hand, plunging it into the boy's leg.

 

"Armin's called the ambulance," she breathes, her hands moving to the boy's wrist. She pushes Marco aside and begins compressions on the boy's heart, stopping to tilt his head back and blow air into his lungs.

 

Someone is crying.

 

Marco gets to his feet, "Everyone", he says, "to the back wall, I want people in chairs, you need to make space for the paramedics!"

 

It's Eren who comes in the front doors, leading two paramedics to the boy, the stretcher bumping against tables and knocking over a bottle of wine. It bleeds red into the table cloth.

 

"He's allergic to peanuts," Marco hears the mother say, "We told them that he was allergic, we _told them!"_ she sobs as the paramedics load him on to the stretcher, and Marco doesn't know what happened. There was no warning, no note, Mikasa had said no serious allergies earlier.

 

She comes up to him when they've gone, loaded into the ambulance and driven away, leaving the restaurant full of people no longer hungry or excited.

 

"It was on one of the order slips," she says quietly, "No one must have heard me when I announced it, it was right when Ymir caught fire, and afterwards I didn't think of it," she looks at Marco, "I am so sorry, Marco."

 

Marco shakes his head. And then he continues to shake it.

 

He can't place blame on anyone. He could blame himself for knocking over the peanut oil, where it could have gotten into anything. He could blame Ymir's hat, or the music, or Armin missing the sentence as he went through the orders. He could blame the menu, or the holiday, or God himself, but there is no blame he could give that wouldn't pale in comparison to the guilt he feels.

 

He was in charge.

 

He is still in charge.

 

But as they let the other guests go with discounts and free dessert and Marco heads upstairs to call Levi on Christmas Eve and explain what transpired, he knows that there's nothing he can do to stop the lawsuit or the bad press or the weight that's going to crush the Christmas Spirit right out of him.

 

This is that extra piece of straw that's sending his lame camel into the cold, hard ground.

 

Fitting to talk of camels and straw on the night of Christ's birth.

 

Fitting, but not funny.

 

 

 

The dawn hasn't broken when Jean spots Marco's car. He grabs his bag and sneaks out the front door, closing it behind him softly. Jean digs his hands into his pockets as the cold rushes against him, watching the headlights bend between trees. Marco's just visible in the driver's seat, sunglasses pushed up on his head, tired eyes and soft brown skin.

 

Jean's heart restricts. His chest squeezes, pulse quickens. He sees Marco and he smiles because _finally_.

 

They haven't seen each other in days, and yet Jean misses Marco like he misses his own bed, like he misses the summer, like he misses sleeping in on days where he wakes up to the cold alarm clock and a full delivery truck.

 

Marco's grinning when he pulls to a stop, popping the trunk so Jean can throw in his bag. When he opens the passenger door and slides into the seat, Marco's still smiling. And Jean can't help smiling back, so there they are, two complete dorks sitting in a car grinning at each other over the console.

 

Jean wants to just reach over-

 

"Merry Christmas," Marco says, interrupting him.

 

Jean breathes out a laugh, "You're a little late on that."

 

"Merry _belated_ Christmas."

 

"And a slightly early New Year."

 

Marco laughs as he puts the car into reverse and pulls away from the cottage. For a moment Jean wonders if he sees movement in the living room, but the house was quiet when he left.

 

"Hope you're ready for the drive," Marco says, "It's going to be a few hours."

 

Jean leans back in his seat, feeling the lightness in his chest. He feels guilty that it feels better now that he doesn't have to worry about his father every waking moment. He feels guilty knowing that he wants to get away. And yet, Jean can't tell himself 'no' when it comes to spending time with Marco. He could be in this car for days, Jean thinks, going nowhere at all, and as long as it's that same familiar boy in the driver's seat, Jean would be absolutely fine.

 

"I'm always up for a road trip," Jean mumbles.

 

"I don't have a lot of music," Marco admits, "And you aren't allowed to make fun of my CDs."

 

Jan scoffs, "I only make fun of people's CDs when they deserve to be made fun of. If all else fails, though, we've always got the radio."

 

Marco flips his sunglasses down as they emerge from the cottage driveway and back on to clear roads and open skies, lighter now the sun is almost up.

 

The CDs, as it turns out, are all mixes of strange bands Jean hasn't heard of, or the alternative sides to bands he has heard of, but the songs he never listens to. Then there's also the large collection of seventies love ballads, and Jean hesitates only for a second before putting them on.

 

He'll admit that there might be some uncomfortable shifting when 10cc's "Not in Love" starts out of the speakers, but Jean can't really skip it, can he, that would seem more suspicious…

 

"How was Christmas?" Jean says, talking over the music.

 

Marco frowns, "How was yours?"

 

Jean watches the trees on either side of him as sunlight starts to break across the snow. He shrugs, "What I expected."

 

Marco shuffles, "I can't say the same," he mutters.

 

"What?"

 

Marco tells him what happened.

 

"I've failed," Marco says, "I spent my Christmas getting buzzed from a bottle of Fireball whisky in my office and talking to Erwin on the phone about lawyers."

 

"Fuck," Jean says.

 

They're both quiet for a minute as the song dies out. Before it starts Jean clears his throat.

 

"It's not your fault."

 

"Yes it is."

 

"No, it's really not. Does it suck? Yeah it does." Marco winces."But it isn't your fault, it was an accident," Marco goes to say something but Jean shakes his head, "Yeah, it was bad timing. Now is really not when you need someone to kick you when you're down. But you know..."

Jean clears his throat, "You know I think you're pretty great, Marco. A great chef," he adds quickly, burning red, "And that you are worth way... more than you think," he finishes lamely.

 

Marco's frown softens, "...that almost helps, Jean.."

 

"Yeah, well I don't do pep talks well, and I'm not in a great enough place to do more."

 

Marco nods, "Fair."

 

"So you know what we're going to do?"

 

Marco raises his eyebrows, "What?"

 

"We're going to fucking not think about it."

 

And Jean switches the song to something with a beat and rolls down his window and sings the lyrics out into the cold until Marco's finally grinning again and the car is freezing inside so Jean has an excuse for why his cheeks are so flushed as he watches (for longer than is completely platonic) his friend smile in morning sun.

 

 

 

The drive from the cabin to Jinae takes about four hours. They stop for breakfast and coffee halfway at a nearly empty Rest Stop, where the workers keep looking at the Christmas decorations like they're mocking their minimum wage and their crappy schedules. Jean nurses a black coffee and picks at a yogurt cup while Marco devours a breakfast sandwich.

 

"What?" he asks, when he catches Jean looking at him. Jean is just glad that Marco has so far only noticed his starring about ten percent of the time.

 

"I still don't understand how you can eat that when you deal with the world's most pretentious food ever," Jean says.

 

Marco holds out the sandwich, "Bacon," he points out, "Cheese, grease, bread. What's not to love?"

 

"The calorie count."

 

"Whatever. You're skinny enough I bet your metabolism can take anything. You want a bite?"

 

Jean sips at his coffee and shakes his head, "Go crazy."

 

"You're just hoping that I cook something for dinner when I get to my mom's, aren't you?"

 

And Jean doesn't meet his eyes because, yeah, he totally did.

 

Marco smirks into his sandwich, "Jean Kirschstein, you've fallen in love with my cooking," he says jokingly.

 

But Jean can't help the lurch in his stomach at the first part of that sentence, and he leaves Marco at the table alone while he claims he needs the washroom. The cold water he scrubs over his face does nothing to help him get his head on straight. Because these thoughts? 'Straight' isn't exactly the word for them.

 

 

 

Eventually the highway starts cutting through outlet malls and subdivisions, and the city begins to overtake the trees. Marco exits before they reach true suburban sprawl, and the car slows along the rural roads of the city's outskirts. They follow a frozen creek, one that winds its way around orchards and vineyards, until Marco turns into the driveway of a beautiful country house, tucked between a patch of woods and snowy farmland. There's a snowman in the front yard and the young evergreens near the front door are wrapped with Christmas Lights.

 

Jean doesn't know if he's ever seen a house that is so stereotypically inviting. He imagines they probably get photographers wanting to take pictures for Sears catalogues and stock photos. His own farm house seems run down and homely in comparison.

 

Marco sighs as he turns off the engine, closing his eyes as he pulls off his sunglasses.

 

"You alright?" Jean asks.

 

"Driving takes a lot out of me," Marco admits, "And there's always something about coming back to my family that makes me want to recharge, you know?"

 

Jean doesn't know. He hasn't felt that way about his family in a long time.

 

He wonders what Marco's family is going to be like, and not for the first time he's worried how awkward his presence might seem.

 

He doesn't have to wait long to find out.

 

Jean's pulling his bag out of the trunk when the front door of the house flies open and two teenage girls rush out to meet Marco. They collide on the grass, Marco dropping his bags to scoop up one of them and spin in a neat circle. Then he wraps the other up in an enormous hug, and Jean stands out of the way, afraid to come any closer into this world of warm familial embraces that, really, he can't have any part of.

 

"We thought you'd be here earlier," one of the girls says, and Marco laughs.

 

"I had to make some detours," he looks over to Jean, and both girls follow his gaze, "Jean, these are my sisters -" he wraps his arm around the shoulder of one, her hair up in a ponytail, glasses fogging in the cold, "Marie, and-" he tries to rustle the hair of the other one, but she dodges his hand, "-Hannah." Hannah, who has blue streaks in her hair, and only somewhat fewer freckles than Marco.

 

Both of them regard Jean.

 

"Marco keeps telling us about you," Marie says warmly, "It's nice to meet you."

 

"Nice to meet you," mumbles Hannah. Neither of them hold out a hand to shake, so Jean just hoists his bag higher on to his shoulder.

 

"Likewise," he says, and he doesn't add that Marco hasn't talked about them much at all, and why did Jean agree to this?

 

The clouds that had blocked out the sunlight earlier in the day finally start snowing on to the three Bodts and the lone Kirschstein, and Marco takes this as a cue to herd them all inside.

Hannah and Marie go first, as Marco falls behind so he can whisper to Jean.

 

"Are you nervous?"

 

"What?" Jean consciously tries to loosen the tension in his shoulders, "No."

 

"Really?" says Marco dryly, "Because you've suddenly gotten all shy and mumbly."

 

Jean shoots him a look, "I have _not_."

 

"Don't try to deny it, Kirschtein, I know you too well," Marco says, and Jean goes to say something but realizes that, at the doorway the twins have turned back to watch them. Hannah is giving the two of them - and the distance between them - a curious glance.

 

But then Marie is opening the door, and once again Jean finds a Bodt residence in no small supply of heat. The house is roomy and all wooden furniture and warm paint, with light coming from uncurtained windows and the evidence of three occupants not hidden behind a facade of cleanliness. There's shoes thrown around the door and coats hung haphazardly on the banister.  

 

"-Mom's been fidgeting all day," Hannah tells Marco, "she wouldn't even sit still through her favourite Doctor Who Christmas Special."

 

"That's serious," he admits.

 

"She's just excited," Marie starts to say, but she's interrupted by a woman who comes around the corner. The twins squeeze by her, further into the house.

 

Marco's mother doesn't say anything, she just wraps her arms around her son, stretching on to her toes to reach him better.

 

"So glad you're home," Jean hears, as he tries (in vain) to become invisible, or to teleport himself somewhere else, because in a moment those eyes are going to be on him.

 

"It's good to be back," Marco says, and he grins down at her once she lets go, "Sorry it's been so long."

 

"Busy, I know," she says warmly, "'S what growing up does to people."

 

Then she really does turn toward Jean. Under her scrutiny Jean suddenly feels like she's a much taller, more intimidating person, despite the benign curiosity in her gaze.

 

"Mom, this is Jean," Marco says, and Jean turns to him for a moment at the tone Marco's taken. It's like...a mixture of pride and affection. Like Marco's showing him off. Jean is rather taken aback at it, actually. As if there weren't enough things knocking him off balance at the moment, Marco has decided that now he's going to refer to Jean with that lovely, endearing tone of voice, and isn't that just distracting.

 

Marco's mom holds him at arm's length and inspects. He does the same. She's a tiny woman, narrow and all medium brown tones like Marco. She's nearly free of his freckles, though her cheekbones have the same handsome definition as her son's. There's a scar along her nose and flour caught along her arms, but she's lovely.

 

"Hello," he says weakly.

 

" _Bonjour_ ," she continues in French, "This is Jean?" Her accent is as Belgian as Marco's, but Jean doesn't mind. It's melodic.

 

"Thank you for letting me stay here. For New Years," he adds quickly, "It's very kind of you."

 

She winks, "Not a problem at all, honey, you're welcome whenever you like."

 

"Mom," Marco whines, "You don't have to talk to him in French."

 

"But I like talking to him in French, your sisters are getting worse every day at it, I swear."

 

" _Mom_!" Comes the complaint from inside the house. She laughs, "I will speak in whatever language is most comfortable for Jean."

 

Jean flushes, "I don't mind either way, Mrs. Bodt."

 

She shakes her head, "No, no, please, Eline is just fine. And I haven't gone by Mrs. in a long time-" she holds up a hand as Jean begins to feel horrified, "-and don't apologize, there's no harm done."

 

"Ok," Jean squeaks.

 

Marco sounds like he's about to laugh and Jean throws him a glare.

 

Eline laughs, "I'm glad you got here safely,  but you must be tired. I've got lunch almost ready, but you could lie down for a while, relax."

 

Marco sighs with relief, "Thanks, mom."

 

She gestures upstairs, "Why don't you bring your bags to the room?"

 

Jean goes after his bag, but Marco doesn't.

 

"Uh..." he starts, "You did, um, get the guest room ready for Jean, right?"

 

Eline doesn't miss a beat, "Of course. Why?"

 

Marco lowers his voice, as if Jean can't hear him perfectly, "Oh, you just said..." he shakes his head, "it doesn't matter."

 

"Bring your bags upstairs? To the rooms?"

 

Jean turns to see Marco rubbing his neck, "Oh, I...must have heard you wrong."

 

Eline smiles, "Ok, honey."

 

Marco leads the way up the stairs, but as Jean follows him he turns just in time to see the look Marco's mom is giving them. As soon as she notices his eyes on her, it vanishes, and she smiles up at him kindly.

 

 

The guest room is a warm shade of beige, and under his socks the carpet is thick and soft. There's a single bed pushed into a corner with an empty night stand, and the closet is open just enough so Jean can see the piles of boxes inside, paperwork and winter clothes. It smells only slightly like mothballs and lemon cleaner. Jean throws his bag on the bed and turns to where Marco is hesitating in the doorway.

 

"So," Marco says, "This is home."

 

Jean can see out the window to a large backyard, with a frozen trampoline and a sleeping garden, and he can picture Marco on that trampoline with his sisters in the summer, and the light in the cherry trees that line themselves along the edges of the property. The golden warm grown of Marco's skin in that light and the way the breeze would carry up through the open windows and unsettle the curtains.

Like a dream.

 

"It's nice," Jean says quietly. He means more by it.

 

Marco shuffles, "I'll leave you to unpack? My room is just at the end of the hall."

 

"Can I see it?" Jean says, and Marco shrugs.

 

The room at the end of the hall has a bay window that looks out over the orchards, and is painted a darker, cooler brown than the guest room. There's a bookshelf just short of overflowing, and in the closet are a few garment bags, but otherwise there's nothing to denote it as Marco's. The pillows on the bed look as formal and unloved as the guest room.

 

"Not much to see," Marco admits, "Everything I have is in my own house."

 

"It's very..." Jean frowns, "...Sophisticated."

 

"It's just another guest room."

 

"I'm trying to be polite."

 

Marco smirks, "I'm going to have a shower, stretch out my legs in warm water for a bit. You ok with going downstairs on your own?"

 

Jean blinks, "I can be nice to three people on my own, you know."

 

Marco holds up his hands, eyes sparkling, "I just want you to be comfortable."

 

Jean doesn't say aloud that he'd be more comfortable joining Marco in that shower, but he rethinks it.

 

Then he turns on his heels and marches out of the room, "Go have your shower," he grumbles.

 

 

 

The twins are in the living room when Jean walks in, suddenly aware that he is not comfortable, because he's never met these people before now and they are all of a sudden looking at him over the back of the couch, TV forgotten. The kitchen is an open concept next to it, and Eline is busy stirring something on the stove.

 

"Something to drink, Jean?" she asks.

 

"No, I'm fine, thanks," he says quietly.

 

"Marco says you're a martial artist," says one of the twins, the one with the blue that Jean can't remember, "He says you're very good."

 

Jean walks cautiously to sit on the very edge of the couch, "Was he being sarcastic?"

 

The other twin shakes her head, "No, he sounded impressed."

 

Jean shrugs, "I think I'm alright. He's only ever seen me do karate once, you know."

 

Hannah - because it's Hannah with the blue, leans forward, "Would you show us some?"

 

Jean blinks, "Right now?"

 

"There's room in the basement."

 

"Come on, Hannah," Marie groans, "He just got here."

 

"The exercise would be nice after a long drive?" she says encouragingly.

Jean looks to Marie for support, but finding only a thinly veiled excitement, relents, "Sure," he says weakly, "I could go through some basics, if you'd like to learn?"

 

"Let's go now, come on!" Hannah says, pulling him up with her, and he opens his mouth to say something but Eline is calling "Don't break anything!" and Marie has his sleeve while Hanna pushes on his back, and there's no way out.

 

Just before he's pushed down the stairs, Marco appears, and Jean gives him a pleading glance.

 

Marco laughs, "You're trapped now, Jean, the twins have you."

 

"But-"

 

Marco winks, "Can't do anything for it but to give them what they want, they're very spoiled."

 

"You suck," Marie tells her brother, "Jean, you've got to teach us how to beat him up."

 

Jean sighs, "No promises," but he lets himself be taken into the basement.

 

Marco laughs as Jean follows after the twins, calling out from them to move around some of the rec room furniture to make way for their impromptu lessons.

 

"He's very nice," Eline tells her son, as he walks up to her.

 

"He's very nice to the right people," Marco tells her, but he's still smiling.

 

Eline nudges him when Marco leans against the counter, "you look happy."

 

Which is funny, because Marco is not particularly happy about much at the moment. He frowns, "What?"

 

"Were you mad because I said 'room' instead of 'rooms'?" she asks, stressing the s with excessive force, "Because, darling, I didn't prepare the guest room for Jean. I assumed he was staying with you."

 

"He's not," Marco says quickly, and he ducks his head as he blushes.

 

Eline pauses, "But you want him to be."

 

"Mom.."

 

"I'm not judging anything," she says, throwing her hands up, "You know I would never, and never have, ever since you came out to me. And he's very handsome, Marco."

 

Marco crosses his arms, "It's not like that."

 

"It is exactly like that, you won't even meet my eyes."

 

Marco turns, walking to the fridge, "Mom, it's fine. The guest room is ready, and everything worked out-"

 

"Marco..."

 

"-and I'm just glad to be home, and glad you don't mind Jean staying with us, after his mom-"

 

"Marco."

 

Marco makes the mistake of standing too long by the open fridge, enough his mom corners him, and when he turns with the orange juice in his hands she catches his chin with her fingers and forces him to look at her.

 

He doesn't know what he looks like at that moment, but he knows what it feels like. It feels like someone is wringing a towel in his gut, like his eyes are betraying how much he feels for Jean, and how much it is _not_ platonic.

 

Because Marco knew he had fallen in love with Jean Kirschtein. But pulling into that driveway, watching Jean stand in the snow and sing in the car, and smile at him even after his awful Christmas, Marco realized exactly how far that fall was.

 

"Oh, Marco," Eline sighs.

 

"Don't tell him," Marco whispers.

 

"Not a word, darling," she promises, "Not a word."

 

She lets him go, where he pours his orange juice in silence for a moment. The oven beeps.

 

Eline goes over, "I've got to run this down the to the neighbours, you'll be fine here?"

 

Marco tilts his glass towards the TV, which is still paying Doctor Who, "I'll be just fine, _maman_."

 

She smiles, "It's good to have you back, Marco."

 

Marco smiles, walking until he can sigh and sink into the couch, "It's good to be back."

 

 

 

 

Jean leaves the twins practicing front kicks after a few hours to go upstairs and find where Marco went. The house is fairly quiet on the main floor, but Jean finds what he's looking for almost instantly.

 

Marco is asleep on the couch, sprawled under a blanket with the TV on in the background, playing a rerun of Doctor Who quietly. David Tennant looks at Jean from the other side of the screen, watching as he sits on the floor next to the couch, closest to Marco's head.

Jean knows almost nothing about Doctor Who, but he's not really watching the episode, anyways.

 

Because even after a full twenty minutes, Marco hasn't moved. He's so soundly, deeply resting that he doesn't even shift. Jean pretends he's not paying attention.

 

But he is.

 

Insomniac Marco, tucked into his couch, calm for once.

 

 _He's handsome_ , Jean thinks, objectively of course. He's just lovely proportions and cheekbones and warm tones. One hand is lightly curled by his face, tucked in front of his chin, and Jean can see the scar running along his fingers just so in the light.

 

In that moment, Jean feels the squeeze in his chest.

 

As much as he could deny it, Jean knows what it feels like. It feels like an urge to wrap your arms around someone's torso and squeeze until the affection in your centre transfers from you to them. To feel heartbeats and muscles moving and hands in your hair and on your own skin. Tucking up the edges of a sweater to lay fingers flat along your back.

 

Jean wants to stroke the line of Marco's cheekbones, to rub his hands along the back of his neck and feel the hair where it's cut short. He wants to curl up on the couch under that same blanket and feel his arms around Marco. He wants to hear Marco explaining what's happening in the show into his ear, feel the press of his nose as it nudges playfully against his neck. Feel Marco's laughter along his back and in his bones.

 

Jean Kirschtein is in love.

 

There's no use denying it now.

 

Jean squeezes his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and he tries to crush the feeling out of his stomach, out of his body, out of his mind, but he squeezes until it hurts and the aching won't go away.

 

"Jean?"

 

Eline has come into the room, coat still on, cheeks flushed from the cold.

 

"Hello, Eline," Jean tries to stand naturally, but he's shaky. She gives him a puzzled look but he returns it with a half-hearted smile, shaking her off. Instead, she looks at Marco, still curled, still asleep.

 

"He's out of it," she remarks.

 

Jean nods, "Doesn't get much sleep at home, I guess," he mumbles.

 

"He always ends up coming here and collapsing for a little while."

 

"Recharging," Jean offers, remembering earlier.

 

"Yes, exactly," she agrees, "looks like I'm going to be making dinner tonight," she says lightly, "better get started."

 

"Do you need help, or-"

 

Eline shakes her head, "Not at all, Jean, but thank you. Why don't you stay, rest with Marco for a bit.”

 

She plants him on the end of the couch, at Marco's feet, giving him an innocent smile. Jean tries not to gape at her. He wants to hug her and snap at her all at once. Because all he wants to do is be closer to Marco, and this is a distance at once both better and much, much worse.

 

Over the next hour, Jean resists reaching over to touch Marco almost entirely.

 

There is one slip up.

 

Marco sighs in his sleep, slipping deeper into the blanket, his feet curling against Jean's leg.

It's so very innocent, but Jean shivers. He lets Marco's feet stay where they are, warm against him.

 

Marco wakes up ten minutes later, and the end of the couch is empty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: New Years and Fist fights, and shit starts to go down. We're over halfway now, folks :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Years, New Updates - or "Marco and Jean's bad day"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over three years since I started this story. It's been a while. 
> 
> I could probably apologize forever, and not come close. In those three years I've graduated from college, bought a house, started my own business, and am about to get married. Like, what a lifetime since I first sat down and started typing this thing out. But it's always been in my head, and I've always wanted to finish it. I can't make any promises - I don't even know how many people out there who started reading this still follow it, or still care about it - but for those you do, I'm going to try my best to finish this. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone in that time who still comments wonderful, kind things, all the kudos - hell, I could list you all, but it might take a while. This has been a wonderfully freeing past-time for me, and I hope that the next half of the story lives up to your expectations. I will, though call out XxLevixX whose comment last October made me really sit down and try to start up writing again. Thank you!!!
> 
> Thank you so much - please enjoy! 
> 
> PS Trigger warnings for violence and homophobia in this chapter. Please be careful!

Jean dreams.

In his dreams he's sitting at his table at 104 with his mom. There's no one else in the restaurant. The kitchen is silent. There's a single candle in the center of the table, and it unnerves Jean. He tries not to look at it.

"He's perfect for you, Jean," she says, and Jean looks at her.

She's the amalgamation of all his favourite pictures of her, healthy and beautiful, shining even. That photo from the lake, with the sunburn subtle across her cheeks. The one with her as a younger, newer mother, and Jean a bundle in her arms. The last picture they took, the one in the hospital, where the lighting is just nice enough you could pretend everything would be fine.

But if he looks closely, he knows he'll see the cracks along her skin, where those photos are lined up. She's not real, but he's willing to pretend - good God, is he willing.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"What do I do?"

She smiles, and the candle flares sharply. It's in a red votive, and the light against the tablecloth is sickly red. Sticky and unhealthy. Jean pulls his hands under the table, so the light can't touch them.

"You just love, darling. Let yourself love."

"I'm too tired to love. I'm too trapped."

"You think you're trapped by your father?" she says. He nods. She reaches across to his face, and gently guides her fingers across his jaw. He closes his eyes.

"Sometimes we need time to grieve alone. And sometimes we get stuck in that emotional mud and we can't get out of it."

"I don't know how much longer I can help him," Jean says, and he feels wet tears along his jaw.

He opens his eyes and realizes that the damp he feels along his chin isn't tears, it's blood. His mother pulls her hands back and he can see her fingertips are bleeding. He can't choke out the words to tell her. He looks at that damn candle, the one in the red votive, and remembers that it was candles just like those - exactly like those - lined up at the church where her funeral was held.

"No, please," he says, "stay," and she smiles.

"All will be well, my dear Jean."

And he wakes up, shivering, gasping, in the guest bedroom in the Bodt family home. With a hand he rubs at the dampness on his face, and he's only partially relieved it comes away clear.

Only tears. No blood.

 

  
The last week of the year in the Bodt family goes like this.

The few days leading up the last day of the year are spent in a large scale cleaning effort by the whole family. They give Jean the easiest rooms, partially he thinks because who is confident enough to let some stranger clean their bathroom, and partially because they want him to relax.

He wants to relax, but the dreams aren't helping. He thinks maybe between himself and Marco only one of them is allowed sleep and right now it's Marco's turn.

Marco spends the days after they arrived sleeping whenever he's left alone for even a moment. He'll pick a movie with his sisters and sit next to Jean on the couch, and within twenty minutes is passed out.

"He only does this at Christmas," Marie tells him, "Never at, like, Easter or on vacations."

"Shouldn't we, uh, turn off the movie? Or turn it down?" Jean asks. He tries not to think about yesterday, when Marco had fallen asleep against Jean's shoulder, and Jean had been forced to sit for nearly a half hour breathing in the scent of Marco's shampoo and feeling his hair against his neck. He'd been lucky to have a blanket in his lap, otherwise it would have been indecent, to say the least.

"Noise doesn't disturb him," Hannah adds, coming to sit beside her sister with chips, "You can vacuum right under him and he won't even move. It's Christmas Zombie Marco."

Zombie Marco, Jean discovers, is too adorable for his own good. If Jean had assumed that his gay revelation wouldn't need to ever see the light of day again, squashed down into his subconscious where it belonged, he was being tested by the glorious sight of half-awake Marco. This Marco had hair in every direction, soft as down, and came out of his bedroom at noon wearing t shirts with the neck stretched out and sleep still in his eyes. He would smile, and Jean would think that the whole world had finally woken up.

He hates how cute this is.

The Bodts have a sunroom off the back of the house, glassed in and warm even in the winter. Marco sleeps there most often. Jean thinks that Marco is trying to stay out of the way of his sisters, who keep requesting karate lessons, and Jean doesn't want to say no. They take to him as a teacher like the best of them, and he'll admit it makes him feel more welcome that way with them scrambling over one another to learn something new. But when they tire out and continue with the Great Clean, Jean skips away when he can, and sits in the sunroom with his phone, watching Marco out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes he dozes off.

Eline wakes him at one point, unintentionally. Jean opens his eyes and she's there, watering a collection of potted plants dropping against the threat of the cold. The sunroom has snow pressed up against the glass windows like insulation, and when he pulls the blanket farther up his chin, Eline turns to look at him.

"Sorry, Jean," she says softly.

Marco is stretched out between them on the couch, blanket pulled nearly to his ears. It's not big enough to cover him completely, and he's wearing a pair of mismatched knit socks that stick out the other end. Jean sits up, not wanting to stare with Eline in the room.

"'s ok, I wasn't really asleep."

"You're looking awfully tired, are you sleeping ok upstairs? Do you want another blanket, or another room-"

He shakes his head, "No thanks, really, I'm fine. I'm lucky enough you let me stay," he rubs the back of his head, forcing down a yawn.

Eline keeps watering, "We're pleased to have you, really. I'm just sorry we're pulling you away from your family. I'm wondering if your mom might be resenting me,"

If someone had stuck a pitchfork in Jean's appendix and spun it up like spaghetti, he imagines it would feel about the same as the mention of his mom does then. He thinks to turn away, but then he stops. In the bright light, sitting surrounded by snow in this glass room, Marco within reach, feels immeasurably safe, somehow. He finds the words slip out into the space like they want to be heard here, and he doesn't stop them.

"She passed away, actually, this last year."

He surprises himself that his voice doesn't shake.

Eline pauses and straightens, looking at him, "Oh, Jean, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bring it up."

He shrugs, "I didn't want to be that guy who everyone feels sorry for over the holidays, I'm sorry."

She walks over, putting down her watering can on the table near Marco and gesturing to where his feet are bunched up on the loveseat.  
"May I?"

Jean scoots over, and she sits, looking at him.

"You're not ruining anything Jean, really. It's awful around on that first holiday, when everyone is so damn cheery about everything and all you want to do is punch one of those stupid light up Santas because you feel like crap."

Jean blinks, "Actually...yeah."

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Jean never thought he would want to, but he does. Eline is looking at him with brown eyes, darker than Marco’s, but just as lovely, and he thinks it might be safe here.

“I do.”

“...what happened?”

He shrugs, like it's nothing, “Cancer. In her stomach. It came on really fast, just...one day it was a thing, this huge thing, that would take her away when a second before everything was fine.”

“Did you get to see her before…”

“Yeah.”

Eline puts a tentative hand on his back, and when he doesn't object, rubs lines up and down. Jean hates that it feels nice, because he shouldn't be stealing someone else's mother so soon after losing his own.

"I lost my parents before Marco was born," she says, not sadly or quietly, but clearly, "They were together in a car accident, when I was about to start college."

Jean doesn't know what to say. He's always been unsure about what to think about people offering condolences, because he knows at least half of them are knee-jerk responses, flat and unappealing. Like someone offering you week old leftovers when you're starving, and you take them because it's something, after all. But he's not been faced with what to do when it's the other way around.

"Shit," he says, "Sorry, I mean - I'm really sorry."

"Shit is right," she says wryly, "But I'm not telling you this to make you feel like you shouldn't be upset, like some sort of pain olympics. I'm just saying that I think I might know some of what you feel."

Jean considers this.

"...What did you do?"

"I cried a lot,” she says blandly, “drank myself into a stupor most days. Made stupid relationship decisions - and some good ones,” she shakes her head, “I got through it by the strength of my own tenacity and because there were people willing to help me. I was reminded eventually that I was not alone, and that made me able to bear it, even if it didn't help some days.”

She pats Jeans’s hand, and Jean is immediately jealous. She looks at him.

“I wish I was at that point where I could look back on it like you do,” he says bitterly, “...and I feel guilty for that, too.”

“If you were at that point, right now, what do you think you would say helped you?”

Jean stops, because he knows. His head wants to turn to Marco, and yet he doesn't want to give it away. He has a feeling Eline knows, and she yet she doesn't say anything.

Because it is Marco who is helping, not with this crush, that love he's now responsible for hiding. But with the openness of conversation, for the moments when there is no judgement and no expectations. For every touch that is brief and platonic, for every laugh that takes a moment for Jean to realize feels natural, before it feels guilty. Because it is Marco - not who makes it all better, but who makes it somehow more bearable.

And how Jean, even as he tries, is not that person for his father.

Eline doesn't ask him to specify, and she doesn't push an answer. She pulls him into a hesitant hug, and Jean lets it happen because he wants Eline to be one of those people too, one who he looks back on and remembers saying just enough at the moment it's needed.

Jean thinks of his dream. He thinks that for Eline, somehow, it has turned out well, just like his mom said it would . She feels so small to have this endured pain, if it's anything like what he feels. He lets himself hug her back.

Marco doesn't even stir.

 

 

On the very last day of the year, Marco wakes up to a soft push at his shoulder. He's half dreaming and imagining it's Jean nudging him. In this dream, of course, Marco is lying next to him, in their shared bed, Jean preferably shirtless, guaranteed to have that stubble across his chin that he had at the party, sexy and warm as hell.

He can't help it then, if maybe he reaches for that hand in the dream, pulling him closer, tugging them together-

Except it is a very real and very clothed Jean who ends up sprawled on Marco instead, and that wakes him up awfully fast.

Jean is swearing and Marco is half glad and half smothered by the fact Jean landed on his chest instead of on his lap, even if breathing is now difficult. Jean manages to push himself off to one side of the mattress and Marco rolls away, gasping.

“Fucking good thing you don't sleep much, you attack people who wake you up!” Jean is saying, and Marco only rubs at his eyes and tries to bundle himself back in his comforter.

“Sorry, Jean,” he mumbles.

He likes the fact Jean is still sitting on the bed, even if he is wearing a shirt.

“Your sisters asked me to wake you, they want to start the game...whatever that entails.”

“What time is it?”

“You've missed the chance to bribe your produce handler, if it matters.”

Marco grabs a pillow and smacks him with it. Jean looks affronted and entirely too pouty for his own good.

Marco just smiles at him, “‘Produce handler’?” He raises an eyebrow. Jean frowns until the innuendo hits him, blushes scarlet, and all but smothers Marco with the pillow. Marco laughs, but when he's finally free of the thing he's disappointed to see Jean’s already at the door.

“You're turning back into a kid here with your family, Bodt,” he grins, “wait till I tell Ymir you made a dirty joke.”

“Please don't -”

But Jean laughs and leaves the room, door open.

Marco falls back on to his mattress, sans pillow, and sighs. He won't hear the end of that one if Jean actually does tell Ymir. And hell, he'll have to stay under the covers for a few extra minutes until he can settle himself down. 

Jean hasn't shaved today. At least some of Marco’s dreams come true.

 

The game is Risk, and it is a Bodt family tradition on New Years Eve, Jean learns. He's never played before, except once on a friend’s computer, with the CD rom version he got out of a cereal box, and he never finished because his mom called him home for dinner. As far as he can tell, it involves both cards and dice, and he's told these will help him conquer the world. Marco takes pity and hands him the rule book under the table, so the twins can't see. 

They tell him his colour options are blue and yellow, because the rest are already spoken for. In the spirit of the holiday, both Eline and Marco offer him their colours, but he declines. Marco plays hunter green, and Jean thinks it's adorable because his mind now translates anything Marco does as either sexy, funny, or cute, unfortunately, and his poker face is going to need to get really good, really fast. 

Jean figures the game will last about a half hour, and wonders what the rest of the day will be planned with now that cleaning’s finished. 

He is mistaken. 

Four turns in, a full hour later, he's decimated by Marco, who regretfully hands Jean his last yellow piece from Canada. 

“No beginners luck?”

Jean snatches it away, “Not against these sharks,” he growls at the twins. They seem indifferent. Marco shoots him a pitying look.

“They don't go easy. It's a competitive trait that I luckily skipped.”

Jean blinks, “please tell me that was a joke.”

“Why would it be?”

Jean rolls his eyes, and he manages to hide his grin under his hand. Eline gives him a knowing look when he turns her way, though, and winks. He feels the grin falter. 

Today, though, Jean will admit that Marco’s competitive side goes a little slack when he chooses the kinder way out of Asia and all but let's himself get swept into a single European space by Hannah. It's his mom, though, that finishes him off.

“Sorry, hon,” she says, and switches to French, “not this year.”

“You all gang up on me every time,” he says, but he's smiling, “ because you know if I win you won't get dinner until late.”

“Absurd,” his mom says, as Marie scoffs.

“We don't gang up on you,” Hannah adds, reaching for the dice, “you just suck really bad.”

“True sibling appreciation,” Marco grumbles, motioning for Jean to join him in the kitchen.

“I haven't won a game since I came back from France,” Marco says, opening the fridge and pulling out a huge metal bowl covered in tinfoil, “not since I started making dinner for them. I tried the first few times, but realized it's a losing battle when it's me vs food.”

Jean smirks and goes to take a seat at the island, but Marco stops him.

“Would you mind, I mean...giving me a hand?”

He says it innocently enough, curious, but Jean feels like he's asked him to share a secret, something unique to Marco, and that if he says yes he's treading on very different territory. Excitement and terror seem a lot alike at this moment.

“I'm not great at cooking,” Jean rushes out, “I mean, I cook grilled cheese and boxed potatoes…”

Marco giggles, “Boxed potatoes? Jean, real potatoes aren't that difficult.”

“You see why I wouldn't be much help,”

Marco returns to the fridge and pulls out another bowl, this one smaller, “No cooking then, just prep. Slicing and dicing sound ok?”

And Jean can't find a reason to say no, so he joins Marco at the counter.

To be honest, Marco’s done almost all of the work. The bowls are full of marinating quail and sauces, and Jeans left with pretty much just vegetables to skin while Marco heats the oven and slices beside him. 

His speed is fearsome. If Jean didn't know him better, he'd say it was almost furious, but Marco doesn't really do furious. The concentration is insane. Being so close, Jean feels like a wind up toy beside Marco's Italian motorcycle of intensity. 

When he feels Jean watching him, he looks up and smiles, and Jean feels like Marco has maybe been hiding this side of him because he would never be able to explain it and have Jean believe him. The juxtaposition makes Jean nervous, like maybe that assumption that he's in love with this boy was preemptive. How can you be in love without knowing about all of someone's facets?

He doesn't try to stop himself, but the question comes out before he thinks it through.

“Why do you think you're bad at this?”

Marco pauses, and Jean realizes he's ruined whatever calm atmosphere had previously been established. 

“What?”

Jean swallows. Marco may not do furious, but he does a fair defensive, and Jean’s too far into this now. 

He clears his throat, “I mean, you say things sometimes. How you're one step away from failing, and stuff. I just...watching you here, you're in your element. And you have the restaurant still-”

“-did you not hear the story I told in the car? Or read that review?”

Marco all but slams his hands flat against the counter, and Jean flinches. Marco looks away and Jean thinks he might be about to hyperventilate. 

“Hey, wait, no, Marco - I just meant, you look so in your element, I just don't know why you doubt yourself so much.”

He risks a hand against Marco’s arm, and it's that which makes Marco look at him. He deflates.

“Sorry, Jean. I know you didn't mean anything by it, I just…”

He rubs a hand down his face, and then holds out the same hand to Jean. On it, clear across all of his fingers, are thin, silver scars. Some of them are barely visible, like paper cuts, invisible until they bleed. Others look like they might have required stitches. One of them, across his index finger, looks like it might have nearly gone to the bone.

“You ever feel like you aren’t good at martial arts?” Marco asks. 

Jean looks up at him, “All the damn time.”

“But, like. Really believe it. Like you don’t want to do it anymore. Like you’re totally uninspired.”

Jean doesn’t respond.

“When I first got hired at 104, it was like I had just been given the keys to the whole damn culinary kingdom, and that felt really good,” he withdraws his hand, “When you spend years with everyone looking down on you because you’re so much younger than them, getting your own restaurant is like finally slapping them in the face, you know?

“Then something just feel out of place. It was like I had worked so hard to get there and then talent, or drive, or prodigy, whatever it was, just faded away once I got to the top. It was small slip ups, first, and I could ignore them. Then I couldn’t.”

He shrugs, and Jean sees the sadness in it.

“I couldn’t think of anything new, after that second star was announced. All I did was draw blanks, and then I got more frustrated with myself, and I wasn’t sleeping anymore and…” he holds out his hand again, “Then I nearly took off a finger, and I ruined everything that night,” he traces the deepest scar gently, forlornly.

“There was blood all over the kitchen, in all of my work. Christa took me to the hospital and they had to sew it back to together. Levi had to start of all my dishes again…” Marco turns away, “And it just never came back.”

Jean waits before he asks, “...what never came back?”

Marco’s back doesn’t move, “Inspiration, I guess. Drive.”  
Jean leans against the counter, until Marco turns around again. He smiles at Jean sadly, and shrugs once more.

“It doesn’t matter, really. Talent runs its course and then goes to someone else eventually. And I’m just making one mistake after another.”

“Marco,” Jean says, and he surprised himself with the intensity, “Just because you don’t have inspiration now doesn’t mean you won’t get it back.”

“Maybe,” Marco admits, and he doesn’t meet Jean’s eyes, “But I’ll be lucky if we can keep the restaurant where it is now while we wait for it.”

“That’s unfair.”

“It’s true.”

Jean rubs a hand through his hair in frustration, “Ok, just. Stop being so damn hard on yourself.”

Marco looks up, surprised, “What?”

“You’re still amazing, Marco. You still make food that’s better than anything I’ve ever tasted, and I’m watching you here and it’s like you’re in a whole other world,” he gestures to the kitchen around them, “You can’t expect to have good ideas every freaking day of the week, even in your genius culinary brain. Maybe it’s just dormant, right now. Your talent, I mean. Maybe you should let it be. ‘Cause when it comes back I’m so sure you’ll be fucking spectacular.”

Marco is looking at Jean with his mouth just slightly open, like he’s surprised at the outburst. Jean certainly is. Marco’s eyes, though, that’s where the focus lies. Because Jean could swear it looks like Marco wants to either embrace his or consume him, and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do about it.

Luckily, the universe answers that questions, because something on the stove starts to overboil.

“Shit,” Marco says, moving away, and it’s like a string has snapped between them, and Jean all but collapses against the counter.

They don’t speak for a few moments, as Marco calms down his stovetop and Jean returns with shakier fingers to his cutting board where he’s massacring his carrots. 

“...Thanks, Jean,” Marco says finally, as far enough away in the kitchen as he can be. He doesn’t meet Jean’s eyes. 

“Hey, I brought it up,” Jean shrugs, “No need to thank me.”

“Yes there is,” Marco says, quietly, and Jean doesn’t contradict him this time.

 

At five to midnight, dinner and dessert have already been cleared away, and the bottle of icewine Eline brought out for the occasion is dangerously close to empty. Marco wishes he hadn’t had a drink in the kitchen cooking with Jean, because his head isn’t clearing quite the way he wants it to. He blames oversleeping, and the way that Jean’s words keep circling in his head, the fierce desire to reach over and kiss his way into the heart of him spinning and spinning until Marco is dizzy and heartsick and only slightly drunk. 

How much he loved Jean for all of that, how deeply.

And how much he realizes that, if that pot hadn’t boiled over, he would’ve ruined everything. 

There he is, Marco thinks, talking with his mother, like he belongs to this family already. He’s never seen Jean quite as relaxed as he is now, how he talks to Eline like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he doesn’t hurt every second of it. Jean notices him looking, and gives him a questioning smile.

Marco looks away and drowns the remainder of his icewine. The sweetness coats his teeth, and he savors the distraction. 

How he hates to be in love. 

His sisters are watching the countdown on the TV, the Niagara Falls party gearing up. They countdown when it reaches thirty, and Marco’s head starts to spin again. He watches Jean instead.

He wants that boy to be the last thing he sees as the year ends, and the first thing as it begins again. 

Jean doesn’t count, but when the timer hits zero, he lets himself be pulled closer to Eline.

“Family tradition,” she says, and she kisses both cheeks. Jean looks like he doesn’t know how to respond. 

Marco’s sisters get to him next, two kisses to his cheeks each, and when they move away, Marco finds himself next to Jean, Jean who looks nervous and curious and expectant. 

“Family tradition,” Marco says softly, stepping up to him, and he wonders if Jean will move away but he doesn’t, and it is Marco’s lips against the stubble of Jean’s cheek, the closeness of his breath, the way it nearly hitches as he’s surprised. The flash of Jean’s eyes as Marco moves to the other side. 

Two kisses, two moments of closeness. Too far. Not enough. 

Marco doesn’t realize he’s holding on to Jean until he backs away and notices his hands against Jean’s hips. Dangerously romantic. Dangerous twice over because Marco is close enough to kiss Jean’s lips and he wants to, he wants to, he wants. 

But it doesn’t happen. 

It is Marco who lets his hands drop, and Marco who turns away.

When he’s lying in bed, later, everyone else asleep and his insomnia back in full force, Marco tries to remember the feel of Jean’s skin, the warmth of him, the smell, the touch. 

His head's still spinning, though the alcohol has most certainly run its way through his system. 

 

 

When Jean gets home, Greg Kirschtein is in the kitchen, making coffee, and it feels to him like as soon as he stepped out of Marco’s car the whole world sunk and sunk until it found its new place, off kilter, on the edge of an ocean cliff, with nothing but dense darkness below it. 

Yesterday he was playing Risk with a family that had opened their arms to him and embraced him with more love than he knew what to do with, bubbling with the warmth of it, and it evaporates when he steps back into his farm house.

“How was your New Years?” his father asks him, and Jean shrugs.

“Fine...how was yours?”

“Rebeccas and Hannes brought me home and we went out for a show.”

“...That was nice of them.”

“Mm.”

The conversation falls, and Jean aches to run back into the snow and wave Marco’s car down and climb in and never come back.

But he takes a breath instead. 

“How are Connie and Sasha?” his dad asks as soon as Jean turns to go upstairs, and he turns around slowly. 

Greg is looking at him carefully, but Jean can see the intensity in his posture. He almost baulks. 

“They’re exactly how you would expect them to be, I guess. Loud and obnoxious,” Jean mumbles. 

“Did you do anything special?”

Jean wonders if he’s being caught out in the lie, and he finds that the words come easier than they should, “Connie got a bottle of icewine from a friend who’s working wine tours this winter, and I had to convince them not to take it out to drink on the lake.”

This seems to appease Greg, who half laughs, half scoffs, “Glad you enjoyed yourself,” he says.

Jean all but runs up the stairs.

He finds he’s not as guilty as he should be. 

 

104 doesn’t open until January 3rd, so Marco gets an extra day and half to clean his own home and completely over think everything that happened with Jean.

Ymir doesn’t help.

The moment she knows Marco is back in Trost, his phone goes off.

“So how far did you get?”

Marco rolls his eyes, “Happy New Year to you, Ymir, thank you for asking.”

“Did you lose your virginity?”

“Ok, let's start with the fact I was visiting my family, not spending a weekend in Vegas, alright. Next let's all just remember that I will not dignify the ‘virginity’ question with a response, because that's a harmful term-”

“Did you, or did you not, hook up with Jean Kirschtein, Marco Bodt.”

“I did not, Jesus, Ymir.”

There's a sudden muffled explosion of static, and Marco holds his phone away from his ear.

“Marco! I am so sorry, Ymir is way too grumpy to be talking to people today,” Christa says. In the background Marco can hear Ymir grumbling, and he does not mistake the term betting pool in her next sentence.

“Christa, did you all bet on whether I would hook up with Jean over the vacation?”

“That would be so inappropriate, Marco, how could you ask that!”

He doesn't respond. 

After a moment there's an ashamed, “yeah…”

“Do I have friends, really, or are you all a bunch of con artists, be honest.”

Christa sighs,”I'm sorry, Marco. They roped me into it, I was drunk and it was New Years.”

“...did Reiner bring his homemade beer?”

“yes.”

“You are forgiven.”

“Thank you, Saint Marco.”

For a moment, Marco wonders if they've been in contact with Connie and Sasha, and he grins, because all his memories of them involve Jean and Jean makes him grin because he is unbearably in love.

“I did not hook up with Jean.”

There's a loud dammit from the phone, and then Christa is saying to Ymir, “pay up.”

“You bet against your fiancé?”

“She was obviously going to be wrong,” Christa says, “you and Jean are way too early into this to be hooking up, and you're both way too shy and self depreciating to think that the other might love you.”

“That's harsh,”

“That's correct, though. I mean, just because you have a crush doesn't mean you're going to sleep with him, right?”

Marco's words die in his throat.

Christa hears the pause, “...what aren't you telling me, Bodt?”

Marco sits on his couch and puts his face in the hand not holding the phone, “Christa...I don't think it's a crush anymore…”

“Well holy shit,” Christa says, “Marco Bodt are you in love?”

In the background, Ymir’s bad mood seems to clear, because he hears a fantastic amount of whooping and hollering followed by the sound of glass shattering.

“Shit, Marco, Ymir just broke the sliding door, I have to go.”

He laughs, “let me know if I can help.”

“I am so happy for you,” she says quickly, and the she hangs up. 

On his couch, with the winter sun coming in from the ravine and his fresh, clean, and stocked up house, Marco starts to smile. Because telling Christa makes it more real, more true, than he could ever make it to be in his head. 

He strides into his kitchen, and he starts to cook. Because Marco Bodt is in love. 

He doesn't assume that this high right here might come crashing down at a moment's notice.

But that moment is coming.

 

104 on the first day back in the new year is sparkling and inviting and silent. Marco is there early, but not early enough to get the vegetable delivery because Jean’s got the rest of the week off. He notices, though, that everything is put away and organized, which must mean it was Erwin and Levi here this morning.

All the guilt over Christmas rushes back to Marco like a head cold, and he dreads that fact he'll be seeing them in person for the first time since then. On the phone, Levi was surprisingly reasonable, as was Erwin - considering that there's a long legal line up behind them and a lovely little disclaimer in all of their branding about food allergy contamination. 

The reservations, Marco know have been slower coming than usual, but there's bound to be some repercussions, he knows. As he treads up the stairs, he wonders if it'll be a lecture or a pep talk, and he is optimistic when he sees the door open it'll be the latter.

“Marco,” Erwin says, when Marco appears at the top of the stairs, “good morning, welcome back.”

He wants to ask if he is actually welcome back, but he is distracted by Levi, who gives him a glance and slowly closes the filing cabinet behind him. 

Odd.

“Could we get right to what's going to happen?” Marco rushes to get out, “punishment or firing or whatever you're going to say about Christmas-”

“You're not being fired,” Erwin says, reassuringly, “you're a valued member of our team.”

“Damn customers shouldn't be dining on the busiest day of the year without proper food allergy warnings beforehand,” Levi grumbles, and Marco knows he's at least partially right. They hadn't let him know about the allergy until they were ordering food.

Considering the events leading up to it, Marco wonders if it would’ve mattered.

Erwin stands and pulls out a chair for Marco, and as he sinks into it his heart sinks with him.

“Why am I sitting down?” He asks

Erwin takes his seat on the other side of the desk, “you're not in trouble for what happened at Christmas, Marco, but we have to talk about some...developments with the restaurant.”

Oh god. Why couldn't have Marco stayed with his family in that happy holiday bubble forever. Why does he now have to be here.

He tries to think of what Jean told him, of Jean’s assurances that Marco is always too hard on himself, that he has his skills and all the time he needs to get back into his grove.

Without Jean with him, the thoughts feel to Marco as flat as opened week-old Pepsi. Nothing solid but darkened sugar and empty calories.

“Marco, your abilities are some of the best I've seen from any chef - regardless of your age. That you’ve come so far so young is only a testament to your work ethic and your imagination,” Erwin starts, and Marco grips the arms of his chair so hard he imagines they might crumble, “and now that you might be slowing down-”

Marco goes to say something but Erwin holds up a hand, “don't start berating yourself quite yet. You've done amazing things, and it's unrealistic to expect that you can always keep up to the standard you've set yourself. So you should not be discouraged by this, alright?”

Levi leans on the desk, “You’re going to think this is because of you, and it is not, and don't forget that,” he says sharply.

If dying was an option right now, Marco thinks he might take it rather than get to the punchline of this cruel joke.

“...what is it?”

Erwin clears his throat, but Levi beats him to it.

“Marco, they're asking us to remove one of our stars. Michelin is demoting us, for the time being - which is praise enough in itself…”

If Levi continues, or Erwin, Marco doesn't hear them. He's dizzy and empty and there's no more weight to him, it's been sucked out through his chest and it lies on the floor, all his guts and glory. 

He's failed, then. Whatever time he thought he had to fix the mistakes he made, it's over sooner than expected. You don't fall in the culinary world and get back up, you fall and keep falling, and Marco feels himself fall, fall, fall. 

He gets up. The chair hits the wall, and he feels the shudder of the building only partially. 

He wants to say he's sorry.

He wants to die.

He wants this to not be true, but it is, and he can't help feeling that there's only so many wants you can get out of life before the universe starts ignoring your wishes, and he's reached his quota long ago now. 

That's the problem with being a prodigy. Everything happens young. And then nothing happens at all.

And he doesn't remember how but he's pushing his way out the door, and pushing his way past Bert and Reiner, and ignoring his car and running. His shoes slide in the ice patches under the snow, and he runs until he's hot inside his jacket and his gloveless hands sting with cold, and his face is a mixture of angry, blazing tears that freeze against the column of his throat.

He runs until he hits suburbs, the he pauses, slips, and his hands skin and cut against the icy sidewalk. 

What's one more cut, he thinks, on these hands. 

Fitting it should no longer be a kitchen knife.

He walks afterwards, tucking his bleeding, whitened hands inside his jacket. He thinks about the New Years and the kisses he gave Jean, and the sleepy warmth of his family's home. He wonders how the world switches gears on him so fast, and he sort of hates it. He does hate it. He detests it, wants to rip up all his degrees and certificates and his contract and burn them. He wants to be held and he wants to punch something, and he can't get any of it, not anymore.

He finds a diner when he hits farmland that's open for breakfast, stuck between two fields of frost bitten corn, and he doesn't eat but nurses coffee and wraps napkins around his cuts and he thinks that his life is over.

He doesn't know how long he sits there. When the looks of the staff finally chase him out into the cold, he goes.

And he walks.

 

It's damn cold when Jean starts walking to his car after karate. The dojo gets nice and cozy in the winter, if somewhat sweaty and musty-smelling, and the cold is in stark contrast. It's too fresh and too sharp for him, and he wants to curl up against it.

Luckily, he's in his truck by the time his phone starts ringing, and he wishes he cared less about the environment, so he could idle the car and start the heat. 

The screen tells him it's a not a number out of his contact list. He answers it anyways.

“Jean?” 

The voice is high and worried and Jean can't place it.

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Christa. You know, Marco's friend.”

Jean remembers a pretty blonde and her tall brunette fiancé. Before he can confirm, she's speaking again.

“Is Marco with you?”

Jean frowns, “No, I assumed he was at work, like I was.”

“We can't find him, and he's not answering his phone.”

The cold goes straight to Jean's centre. 

“What?”

“Erwin and Levi, they had to tell him -we lost one of our Michelin stars. Marco,” she sounds like she's about to cry, “he ran out on us, we haven't seen him since this morning.”

Outside, the sun is fading early. Without it, the cold will stop biting and start devouring. 

“He's not at home?”

“We've checked the usual places. He doesn't have his car with him, and there's no buses to Jinae today, he can't have gone home-”

“I'll call his mom and double check.”

“Jean what if he's outside, what if something happened?”

No, no, Marco will be fine, he will be warm.

“He'd go inside if it got too bad, I know he would,” Jean says it because he needs to hear it out loud as much as Christa does, “I'll start looking, ok? I'll, fuck, I'll drive around for a bit, I'll get Connie and Sasha to call around, ok?”

His heart slams against his rib cage and the anxiety beats with it. 

Not Marco, anyone but Marco.

“Please, if you find him, we're all looking for him, just let us know.”

“I will.”

Jean remembers all he said to Marco in his mother's kitchen, and how it all feels so damn superficial right now. He thinks about the knife in Marco's hands slamming into the counter, thinks about the soft, easy Marco he knows, the sleepless and the sleep shaped Marco, and he needs, absolutely needs him to be ok.

His truck has snow tires and excellent traction, so when he takes his turns a little aggressively he stays on the road. There's no one out this evening in Trost, not with school still out and the cold so harsh. Jean checks the bar, he drives to Marco's Mcdonald's, he calls Sasha and asks her to call the coffee shops around 104 in case he ducked inside one. 

When nothing turns up Jean decides to drive home and get Eline’s number from his room and check with her, maybe get Rebecca and Hannes to call the police-

And his breath rushes out of him, because the figure on the side of the road, practically limping up the stretch of gravel on these streets just outside city limits, is Marco.

Jean realizes he's been praying, begging inside his head, because when Marco appears his thoughts narrow to only thank you, and he feels like crying and honking his damn horn at Marco, about running him over, and jumping out and tackling him and kissing him senseless.

Jean hates love like this. Because he had thought of it like a sweet, secret, like stealing one too many pieces of candy from the bulk section. But it is not. It is hard as a stiff drink and a workout that tears your muscles apart, and it's angry and demanding of him, driving through like a solid punch to the gut. 

He pulls over, parks the truck.

“Marco!”

Marco’s reaction is cold-slowed, “Jean?” He asks and his voice breaks.

Jean allows himself an embrace, pulling Marco into him, tucking the half-frozen body against his warm, worried one.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses, “don't you ever do this again, you hear me?”

Marco, stunned to find himself wrapped up and safe, breaks. The shivering starts violently, suddenly, and Marco is grasping at Jean's back with clawed fingers.

“I fucked up,” he sobs into Jean’s shoulder, “I fucked up, Jean, I'm not good enough anymore-”

“You are so good, Marco Bodt. Fuck stars and fuck ratings, you are good enough in your own fucking right.”

Marco looks at him, and Jean can feel the fire in himself. He wonders if his eyes are as intense as he thinks they might be, but all he wants is to send all his love in this one moment towards this person across from him - this gorgeous, hurt, self loathing masterpiece of freckles and scars.

Marco hiccups, and Jean doesn't wait to drag him off the road and into his pickup, blasting the heat, gas be damned.

“Don't you dare move,” Jean says, and he calls Christa first, and then Sasha.

 

Jean drives them back into the city.

From what he can see, Marco's hands are bone white, and one of them has streaks of frozen blood trailing down his palms. His tears come in patchy, shivering breaths, and Jean squeezes the wheel because he can't squeeze Marco. Jean doesn't ask him to explain. In his pocket he feels the vibration of Christa’s messages.

“Should I drive you home?” Jean asks carefully, when Marcos shaking subsides under the care of the pick-up’s heating system. Jean’s never had it turned up so high, and it feels almost tropical.

Marco shakes his head.

“The restaurant?”

The head shake is stronger this time. 

“Can we…” Marco starts, “I don't want to think right now.”

Jean’s stupid, love addled brain immediately conjures a picture of ways that Jean might help him stop thinking, and he immediately wants to punch himself in the face for going to sexy, unhelpful places instead of sympathetic ones. 

“A drink, maybe…” Marco mumbles.

“What?” Jean asks, broken from the brief (and inappropriate, he tells himself) daydream.

“Isn't that what you do when you get bad news? Get drunk?”

“I'm not sure adding alcohol to this situation is going to help-”

“Please,” Marco’s voice cracks, “I can't go home, I don't want to see anyone. I just…” he swallows, “just want to forget for a few hours…”

The blood on Marco's hands is a mess, and he looks terrible enough that Jean wonders if they'll even be allowed into a bar, but he turns towards the city centre, downtown enough from 104 that Marco won't be reminded. 

“If you want to drink, then I'm staying with you,” Jean says.

“I want you with me,” Marco replies, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

And isn't that just a sucker punch, right to that sensitive part in Jean's stomach that is learning fucking backflips with this stupid crush. Marco doesn't ask about the flush to Jean's face, but at the very least if he had Jean could have blamed the heater. 

He picks a bar that Connie and Sasha have been talking about - an old place with a pool table and a wooden bar polished to a shine by regulars and their pint glasses. He parks around the corner, and when Marcos hands can't seem to undo the seatbelt, it's Jean's hands that cover his, unthinkably doing it for him.

Jean Kirschtein you're pushing it.

Marco doesn't seem to notice.

Jean thinks this might be one of the worst things he's agreed to - and having known Connie and Sasha, that is a high bar, but his gut is telling him to follow and watch and protect. He's always remembered that weird thing about not waking a sleepwalker. Marco’s eyes and his slow, lost gait seem to remind him of that, and if he can't wake Marco then he's sure as hell going to follow him until he does.

He grabs on to Marco’s arm, though, just a hand on his sleeve, really, just in case.

The bar is a comfortable warm. Not like the cabin of his truck, not sickening and dense, but cozy. Marco doesn't seem to notice. The servers don't seem to notice or care that Marco looks half drunk already, and when no one moves to serve them Jean pulls Marco to a corner booth. There's a party around the pool table, six or seven guys, and a spattering of tables turned towards the hockey game on tv. Some of them notice him and Marco, and Jean kind of wants to punch them for the judgement in their stares.

For fucks sakes, he thinks, the boy’s had a hard day. 

“So what does Marco drink, then?” Jeans says instead, nudging a menu towards Marco. 

“Vodka,” Marco grumbles, “or tequila,”

“How about something warm.”

“Irish coffee, then,” Marco mumbles.

Jean flags down a server, “Irish coffee for our friend here, and maybe bring a first aid kit, if you’ve got one,” he says. The server turns to go, but Marco waves them back.

“And we need two shots of jäger,” Marco adds before Jean can stop him, and Jean looks over with what he hopes is half surprise and half scolding, but what he knows is more like scandal. 

“Jaeger, eh? Full of surprises,” he says.

“Nope,” Marco says, forehead hitting the table top and staying there, “not anymore.”

Jean doesn't know what to say to that, or to the fact that when they get their drinks Marco doesn't even offer the second shot, only downs them both and puts his head back on the table.

So instead he fishes Marco's hand out from under the table, and opens the first aid kit that the server left. He's not surprised this is where his friends prefer to drink, the server didn't blink at the mention of a first aid kit, and Jean notices that, along with the bandages and alcohol swabs, there is a mini bottle of whiskey jammed into the box. Someone's drawn a skull and crossbones over the label in green sharpie. 

Marco’s hands are still cold, and Jean permits himself to rub some of the colour back into them. They're chapped, the skin rough around scars across his fingers, like bad memories resurfacing in light of Marco’s compromised state of mind. But they're still beautiful hands. Still strong, capable, and he'd trade a thousand scars if only he could let Marco see what everyone else sees in him. What Jean sees. 

But, in the end, Jean is a coward, and there's no such deal to be made, so he settles for rubbing alcohol against the gritty, scratched palms of his love and holding tighter when Marco flinches away from the pain. Marco hisses against the table.

The bandages go on gentler, softer, and Jean watches his own hands smooth over the bandages even after they're stuck on. Marco's head turns, and he watches as Jean drops them, realizing what he's doing. 

“That felt nice,” Marco mumbles again, and his eyes fill with tears. 

Jean says, and it comes out soft, “it's going to be ok.”

“It's not.”

“You only think that ‘cause of the jaeger.”

Marco half laughs and half sobs, and somehow, if it’s Jean or Marco or a combination that moves first, Marco's head ends up on his shoulder, nose pressed into his collarbone, crying.

Jean closes his eyes, feels his heart berating him for not knowing what to say, not being what Marco needs, and at the same time jumping, buzzing, as his hand finds its way to Marco's hair, stroking, calming, god, the feel of it. Good lord, you are a terrible person for this, he tells himself. But it only feels half true when Marco is close, trusting him to be there, to not move away. 

His eyes open, and they catch the stare of a few of the men at the pool table, leaning against the pool cues, eyes prying. 

Marco hiccups, “I'm sorry.” It pulls Jean back. Those men don't matter. Only Marco matters right now. 

“Why are you sorry?” 

“At the moment, I'm sorry for this,” Marco says, “you shouldn't have to be here, consoling me. And...in the end, there are worse things than this.”

Jean moves his hand to Marcos shoulder, pressing gently, “don't do that. Don't think your pain is any less worthy.”

“I'm still alive. I've still got a job. i don't know why I'm so upset-”

“Because something happened that fucking hurt you, and you are allowed to be upset.”

“I don't deserve you,” Marco breathes, and Jean wonders if the jaeger’s into his bloodstream already. 

“Fucking hell you don't, you deserve way better.”

“Jean, what do I do now?” Marco breathes, and Jean tries to make the sigh that escapes him silent. 

Jean motions for the server to bring them another shot.

“You get a good buzz going,” he says, “And then I drive you home and make sure you have a glass of water, and then you crash and deal with it tomorrow.”

“What if tomorrow isn’t any better?”

“Dude, tomorrow is going to hurt like hell. You’re drinking jaeger,” Marco groans into his neck, and Jean suppresses a shudder, “But you know what you’re going into now, and you know that you’ve got me to back you up. As long as, you know, you don’t run away.”

“I’m sorry,” Marco whispers, “I...god, I didn’t know how to face them. And I….” he swallows, “I couldn’t face you.”

Jean watches Marco’s hands ball into fists, watches the edges of bandages come up at the corners. He smoothes them down gently. 

“Kind of fucked that up for you, considering I was the one that found you.”

“...Was everyone worried?”

“Scared shitless.”

The server arrives with the lone shot amongst a tray of beers. Marco barely lifts his head off Jean’s shoulder to swallow it down, and even as he does Jean watches as the beers get delivered to the pool table. They’re still watching him. Jean stares. Some of them shift their eyes away, but some don't. He catches one mutter something under his breath that seems suspiciously homophobic, if Jeans lip reading skills are anything to go by. 

He realizes what it must look like. Not Marco alone, even though he’s limp and exhausted at Jean’s side - but the fact that they are pressed against each other, the proximity hinting at a relationship that Jean’s barely come to terms with wanting, let alone displaying. 

But he finds he can’t care. Marco’s breath is along his jawbone, the smell of alcohol on his breath, and Jean thinks that maybe only a few weeks ago he would’ve moved away, away from Marco, away from watchful eyes. Now, though, that seems like a foolish idea, when the better option is to throw his arm around Marco, to keep him safe and warm and close, especially when he needs it most. 

“Jean?” comes Marco’s soft voice. Somewhere, far away from Jean’s happy gay bubble, someone on the tv scores. There are cheers from the other tables, and Marco’s eyes look up at him,through his eyelashes, “Can we go home?” 

If there's any justice in the world, Jean thinks, he will be allowed to kiss Marco Bodt once in his lifetime. And if it happens, he'll pine in peace for the rest of his kiss-less days. 

“You going to finish your coffee?”

Marco sits up, reluctantly, and finds the mug of Irish coffee, lukewarm and bitter. Jean flags down the server as he digs out his wallet, but they're busy cashing out the pool table guys. He taps his debit card against the table. Each corner, spinning the card in his hand, wondering if he should stay with Marco, crash on his couch again, and dismisses the guilt that his father will be fending for himself again.

Before the guilt overtakes him completely, Marco nudges him out of the way.

“Move, please.”

“Where are you going?”

If there's a current of fear in Jean's words, Marco bridges it easily.

“I promise I won't run away,” he says, “I just want some air.”

“It's fricking freezing still.”

Marco frowns, face sheepish, “that last shot isn't agreeing with me…”

Jean digs his keys out of his pocket and hands them to Marco before he moves, “at least wait in the car then?” Marco squeezes past, hand on the table as he steadies himself. 

Marco manages a half smile, as Jean slides back into the booth, “...I think,” he says, “that I might only be allowed two stars in my life. And since I've found you, maybe they had to take one of the other ones away.”

Jean hasn't been drinking, but his face feels the heat rush like a shot of whiskey to his chest. It burns all the way down.

Then Marco is gone, out into the cold again, and the server is leaving the receipt for the men at the pool table. Jean watches the men shuffle out, but his head isn't seeing their looks, their backwards glances, the shared, angry mumbling. 

He only sees Marco, the sad, deflated lilt in his step. He feels the heat of Marco's body pressed against him like a ghost, and Jean is so so in love.

And he forgets in the moment, that this love isn't something that everyone will understand. 

 

Outside the air is annoying cold. Jean hates it, and wishes that spring would get here already and save him these nasty, shocking steps out into the winter dark streets - whether it's for vegetables or not.

The server had taken their sweet time getting to him, and now he's a little worried that Marcos going to get in trouble for sitting in his truck, half drunk, alone. Some asshole cop ticketing Marco in his truck isn't what this day needs. 

It's dark enough now that his breath in the cold reflects the gold streetlights, the light spilling from the bar. He digs deeper into his coat, hunches, berating himself for parking so damn far away.

“Oi,” someone calls. Jean looks up.

It's three of the men from the pool table, coming out of an alley like a group of burly, spirit-addled shadows. They're between Jean and the way to the parking lot, and Jean realizes immediately that choosing to walk through them would be a terrible idea.

“Where's your boyfriend?” One of them calls, and Jean stops immediately.

It's the way he says it, taunting, jeering, like an insult. They move till they block the whole sidewalk, and it's cold enough tonight that no one is on the street to protest.

Deescalate, his senses tell him.

Jean takes a deep breath, “Waiting for me,” he says flatly, “can I get past, please.”

His brain doesn't register that he agreed with the boyfriend claim. It doesn't matter. At this point, one of them spits at him, and the one beside him follows it up with a slur. Jeans stomach tightens.

“We don't condone people like you in our bar,” the one says again, but he doesn't say people. He's not as tall as Jean, heavier, red-faced. The other two are thinner, younger. Sons maybe. 

“Luckily, were not in your bar anymore. Let me pass.”

“No.”

Jean is maybe six steps away. Out of arm's reach. The men start to shuffle, one of them rubs his hands together. Jean holds out his own, palms out, close to his chest.

“Don't start something,” he all by spits back. 

“You started it, bringing him in there”, the large one moves forward, voice rising, “and you don't seem to get that we're teaching you what right and wrong-”

“Back off.”

“Fuck you, f-”

His last word is drowned out when he steps forward, and he tries to shove Jean. 

Except he doesn't get to.

 

It's not like you train to fight. You do. You train for eventualities that you can't escape, for violence and anger and pain. But you don't go to karate classes with the expectation that you'll find a stranger angry enough to want to hurt you - you go just in case there ever is such a person. And for every class, for every year, for all the practice, there's always the question - if it did happen, would your training be enough?

It goes like like. Jeans body moves. His head tries to catch up.

The man tries to push him, and Jean deflects his hands from the inside, opening him up to a knee to the stomach.

The man doubles over, swears with whatever breath is left in him.

But the other two are already on the way. 

One of them gets a hook to the side of Jeans jaw, and it hurts - but not as much as it could have. His arm is left out, unrestricted, and Jean ducks under him as the other guy comes for his chest, fist making solid contact against the guys liver. The third man is faster than the other two, though, and when Jean spins he catches the edge of a jab, the man’s ring digging into his nose. 

He sees an opening to get away, until the first man gets his breath back.

“Motherfu-” he starts, and he dives for Jean.

Don't get on the ground, his body tells him. The man is still too slow. Jeans knee catches him in the chin before the takedown, hard, and the man crumples. 

The other two get meaner. There's blood down Jean’s face, into his mouth now, and he barely dodges a flurry of strikes. The two of them spin, trying to keep him from running.

“You're better than your boyfriend,” one of them spits, and Jean feels cold through and through.

There's only three of them here.

There were seven inside.

He doesn't wait. One of them, the one who just spoke, comes in with a hook, and Jean doesn't hold back. He jams the arm before it reaches him, pummels the nerves at his neck, and kicks out his feet, still holding the arm as the man goes down. It's almost textbook when he breaks the arm over his knee, hears the snap like it's from across the street. The man screams. 

The last one now looks hesitant, as Jean stands, cold fury lacing through him. He doesn't care about the damage he's done, the insults they've thrown. This man is between him and Marco, and he will not show mercy. 

The last guy tries to back up, hits a wall, and the last thing he sees before he blacks out is Jean’s fist as it comes towards his head. 

Jean runs. He leaves the three broken in the street and he sprints, runners slipping in the ice on the street. The last corner before the parking lot he takes too fast, slips, and his wrist hits first, pain hot against the cold. Jean swears, gets to his feet.

He can see them now. The last four. They're under a streetlight, beside the car, and on the ground between them is Marco. He watches as one of them kicks, foot stopping when it hits the man curled, dark and still, on the ground. 

Jean doesn't remember getting there. He doesn't think about the pain in his wrist, it means nothing.

One goes down with a roundhouse to the face. He practically spirals to the ground. The others aren't expecting it - they pause, but Jean already has another thrown, landing on his back, before Jean curls an arm around his shoulder and pulls. It pops like a firecracker, loud and punctuated by another scream.

The last two fucking sprint away, and Jean’s fury almost makes him give chase. They'd deserve it. They'd deserve to have bones broken, noses smashed, joints ripped apart. He wants to kick at the two men left, one of them trying to get the other away even with his dislocated shoulder. Jean looks at them, and he sees the terror in their eyes, and he wants to make it worse. He wants to use every one of his considerable skills and make them suffer.

Until Marco groans.

The anger dissipates like Jeans breath. Instead there is fear.

Jean drops beside him, not touching, trying to see the damage. He doesn't notice as the attackers limp away.

Marco is crumpled in on himself, face a mess of blood. Jean tries to wipe at it with his sleeve, but Marco only whimpers. 

“Marco, it's me,” Jean says, his voice almost cracking, “I'm here, I'm here - you're going to be ok, I promise. Fuck, Marco,” he voice does break now, as Marco opens his eyes, “I'm sorry.”

“Jean?”

Jeans hands want to touch him, hold him, but he doesn't risk it. Not if something's broken, not if his neck- Jean stops himself.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Instead he fishes in his pocket to find his phone, then takes off the damn thing and puts it over Marco.

“I'm here, Marco, I won't let anything happen to you.”

Marco’s eyes close, and he doesn't say anything. 

Asked later, Jean doesn't remember what he said on the phone. He remembers the voice of the operator, he remembers begging, pleading for them to get here, he remembers the infinite time between the cold night, and when the silence is broken by red and blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco and Jean deal with the backlash of an attack, more truths are revealed, and will there ever be more cooking in this story??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!!
> 
> So first of all, I am back with this once again, and I will try my best to keep at it. I am pretty clear on the final chapter, so we just have to get there. But in the meantime, here is more angst. Cause that's what I write now? Apparently...
> 
> Thank you for all the support, and all the people who came back to check out this story again, after so long. Your comments and love are so so appreciated, and I would list you all as I usually do, but I'm on mobile. But just, thank you, so so so much. 
> 
> WARNING: so this chapter once again deals with homophobia, and does use some words in dereogtory ways and deals with some unsupportive and bigoted people. If it's something you're cautious about, I would enter the last bit with hesitation, especially when Jeans phone goes off three times. 
> 
> Things will get better in this story, I promise. We're just at the bottom of the hill and the boys will need to work their way back up together.

 

The fire department gets there first, but only just. The paramedics and the police pull up, the parking lot filling with uniforms, people. Jean is pulled out of the way, even as his eyes don't leave Marco's face.

_This is your fault._

“It's a good thing you gave him your coat,” says one of the paramedics, and Jean barely hears her. They're strapping Marco into a neck brace, then up onto the stretcher, “it's a cold one.”

_It's your fault. You brought him to the bar. You didn't save him._

“Son, if you come over here,” another one says, “we can get you checked out.”

Jean turns, surprised to find another paramedic beside him, and a blanket draped across his shoulders.

“I don't want to leave him,” Jean croaks, “I have to go with him.”

The paramedic, an older man, puts his hands on his shoulder, “we need you out of the way to get him ready to transport - and the police will want to talk to you.”

“I can't leave him. He’s been drinking, tell them - if they need to give him medication-”

“I will, son. You'll go with him, but you won't do any good if you're not well enough either.”

_You should have saved him._

“Can you describe what happened?”

It's a cop now, as the paramedics wipe the blood off his face and his knuckles with alcohol. He can smell it, especially as it stings his nose. He's seated in a different ambulance, but he can see the stretcher with Marco just outside.

“There were seven of them. Three of them stayed behind, four of them went after Marco.”

The cop writes it down. She's already taken his name, and Marco’s. Jean wonders if he's going to get charged for attacking back, but the thought is fleeting.

“What happened to the other three?”

Jean winces as they lay a bandage over the cut on his nose. He can feel the swelling giving him a headache already.

“Came after me. Waited in the alley for me, blocked off my route. I told them to back off,” Jean shrugs, “they struck first. I defended myself.”

“Why did they attack you? Did they give a reason?”

Jean doesn't meet her eyes. The paramedics have moved on to his wrist, and he watches them inspect it instead.

“Sir?”

“...They told me ‘our kind’ wasn't welcome in the bar. That they wanted to make sure we didn't come back.”

Jean feels the flush, even as he's ashamed by it. Even as he defended himself against it.

“Did they specify what they meant?”

He doesn't want to answer.

“Did they explain what they meant by ‘your kind-”

“Because they thought Marco and I were together. They thought we were gay,” Jean says, and regrets cutting off a police officer when his case is going to depend on them believing it was self defence.

But the word sticks in his mouth. Gay.

He's never said it to a stranger before.

The officer doesn't react, she keeps writing, “And do you identify as gay, sir?”

Jean winces. His wrist, he thinks is strained at least, fractured at worse, and so swollen they can't tell. That's not what hurts the most, though. It's the memory of his father, of his words. Of denying what his son felt, who he was. Older scars, deeper ones.

“Are you allowed to ask me that?” Jean says quietly.

The officer sighs, dropping her notepad, “Off the record,” she says, eyeing the paramedic, who simply shrugs, “I would have done the same thing. Hell,” she says, “if it was my wife where that boy was, I would have done a lot worse.”

Jean stares, now, and he sees the cop, the gruff and professional police officer, and how her facade is barely keeping the rage contained, “and I would recommend you and him press charges against these men, if we find them. But it makes it a whole lot easier if I can officially label it as a hate crime, rather than men making homophobic assumptions.”

Jean looks at her, sees her, and he thinks that she must see the fear in his eyes, the absolute terror of the admittance. What if it got out, what if his father saw. What if the world knew what Jean felt. What would that world do? And might it be worse than what had just happened?

She gives him the hint of a smile, “I won't press you, sir.”

She turns, but Jean manages, “You wouldn’t be...lying. If you said something like that,” he says, the words squeezing out through his chest vice-gripped by fear. Funny how this, not the fighting, is what feels like it's dragging him down.

She nods, flipping her notepad open again, “Thank you, Jean. We’ll be in touch.”

 

They ride to the hospital, Marco strapped in, Jean terrified, watching Marco's face as it glows from the streetlights. Jean has no idea what time is it now, only that the dark seems permanent, and he wants to see Marco, alive and well, in the daylight - yet it seems like a dream more than an inevitability.

When they get to the hospital, they pull Jean away. Marco goes in for X-rays, checking on broken ribs, internal bleeds, and Jean gets sent to a different floor to check his wrist.

He waits for an hour.

It's only a sprain, but a bad one. They wrap it. They show him to the waiting room in Marcos floor.

He waits.

He's lucky it's not the same floor as the one they took his mom. Not even the same wing, though the vending machines have the same selection, the signs are the same colour. The chairs, graciously are not.

He's been in far too many hospitals lately.

He pulls out his phone.

There are two messages - none from his father, one from Christa, checking in, one from Sasha. It's only one, and not late enough that anyone should start worrying about him. He wonders if his father even noticed the absence, or if he was stuck in a daze, unconcerned with nothing but a loss that had already happened, not about a loss that might still be coming.

So Jean stares at his wrist, and he names off the bones, and the muscles, one by one. His kin degree has long since gone by the wayside, any hope of his once medically inclined dreams are probably crushed and buried by now, under a layer of hospital anxiety and hypochondria.

He names each bone up his arm, names the shoulder, the neck, even his face, fingers finding where he's swollen and bruised. He climbs his body mentally like a ladder, until he finds the top rung and the terrible awful valley of his thoughts swims out before him.

_This is your fault._

_It's not. It's theirs._

_It's your fault. Marco should never have been dragged into your pathetic, falling apart life._

_You should have saved him. All that training, and you couldn't protect him._

The tears feel normal here. Expected. He wipes them away with the back of his good hand.

And he calls Rebecca.

When she answers, he can hear Hannes in the background, laughing. Good, thinks Jean, good that someone feels light enough that the world hasn't crushed them yet.

“Rebecca?” He manages.

“Jean? What's wrong?” She's worried instantly, he hears the tv in the background turn off, “are you ok?”

“No,” he says, what a coward, what a failure, his mind tells him, “I'm in the hospital. These men, they-”

Can't even finish the damn sentence.

“We’re coming to you. What room are you in?”

“It's not me, it's Marco,” his voice shatters, “I don't know if he's ok, I don't know…”

“It's alright Jean, it's ok, just tell me what happened.”

It’s strange to tell someone you’ve been attacked. Stranger still to use the term ambushed, to describe how someone lay in wait to hurt you. He breathes after, wills his hands to stop shaking.

Rebecca is speechless for a moment when he finishes, “But why?”

The waiting room is nearly empty, except for a volunteer sitting a desk across the room, and an older couple unconcerned about Jean, curled up in the row closest to the vending machines.

“Marco was upset,” Jean says quietly, “He...I...We were...close,” he all but whispers, “In the bar.”

Rebecca’s voice softens, “Jean…”

“Don’t tell my father.”

“You don’t want me to tell him where you are?”

Jean closes his eyes, “He doesn’t need to know. He’ll just think I’m late getting home, if he thinks about it at all.”

Rebecca sighs, “Do you want us there?”

Jean feels foolish that, now that it comes to it, he doesn’t need them here. He wants to see Marco, and he wants to curl up and sleep, and he wants this day to have gone very differently, but he does not need to lean on someone, to depend on them.

“No,” he says, rubbing his hand across his face and regretting it when his nose stings, “No, I just-”

“Is there a Jean Kirschtein here?”

A nurse has come through the doors to the ward, and Jean jumps to his feet.

“I have to go, they’re calling for me,” he says hurriedly into the phone, and he doesn’t hear Rebecca’s response.

“I’m Jean,” he says instead, and the nurse looks him up and down.

He must look like rubbish. Face with leftover blood, knuckles raw, wrist wrapped. He wonders if the bruises under his skin have started bubbling to the surface, but he finds he doesn’t care.

“Marco is awake, he’s asked you to come in.”

Jean wants to push past the nurse, find Marco himself, but he lets himself be lead, slowly, slowly, to a room at the end of the ward.

Marco hasn’t gotten a private room, but the rest of beds are empty. He’s in the back corner, lights on above him illuminating the hospital gown, the thin, white blankets covering his waist.

If Jean thought he looked like shit, then his definition is changed by seeing Marco. His face is swollen along his cheekbone and his forehead, bandages barely hiding the inflammation. His one leg is up on a pillow, ankle wrapped, knee wrapped, chest wrapped. God, Jean thinks, anymore bandages and compression and he'd be mummified.

But it's not the injuries that Jean finally focuses on, it's Marco's eyes, open, sleepy, alive.

“Jean,” Marco murmurs.

Jean sinks into the chair beside the bed, slumping his elbows besides Marcos arms. Good god, the relief. Like cold water on a burn, hiding the worst symptoms.

“You're awake,” he breathes, “thank god.”

“I could say the same thing,” Marco murmurs. He turns to the nurse, “can I have a minute, or do the police need to talk to me now?”

The nurse smiles, at both of them, knowingly, and Jean notices, hackles rising, “I'll be back in a moment.”

Marcos hand reaches for Jeans, and Jean notices the splints on his fingers. He doesn't reach back, even as his body urges him to move those small centimetres, to feel Marco’s pulse against his own.

“Broken finger,” Marco says, showing it off, “four broken ribs, sprained ankle and knee,” he touches Jeans hand, refusing to let Jean pull away, and Jean practically shudders, the metal of the splint cool against skin, “and down a Michelin star, if we're doing the day's losses.”

“Fuck that,” Jean breathes, “I’ll fight Michelin myself if it meant that you weren’t unconscious and broken-” Jean hates that his stupid voice keeps breaking today. He hates Marco here, in pain, and that he’s unable to do anything. When his fists close, frustration eating pushing at them, he feels the sting across the broken skin.

“Hey,” Marco says, gently, like he’s not the one here, “I’m ok.”

“I could have prevented this,” Jean says, and his eyes are wet, and the tears are stupid, and they’re making his headache even worse, “God, I am so fucking sorry-”

Marco’s hand find Jean’s face, fingers so gentle. Jean’s tears are startled into submission, his breath catching as Marco’s skin presses so gently against the soft, bruised part of his jaw. It’s affectionate, it’s intimate, and Jean wants more and deserves nothing, “You have nothing to apologize for, Jean. You saved me.”

“This isn’t you saved, this is you hurt.”

Marco’s eyes go soft, “No concussion, miraculously, no internal bleeding. You found me, and from what they tell me, you got them off me.”

Jean swallows, “Marco if I had lost you-” his words falter, “I can’t-”

Marco’s finger ghost down his face, and Jean doesn’t care that it isn’t platonic, that it would absolutely be misconstrued, he relishes the feel of Marco’s hands, “You didn’t lose me, I’m right here.”

Right here. Jean sees him, weak and bruised, but alive. Safe. Loved.

The nurse comes back then, Jean hears the footsteps, and he doesn’t shake Marco’s hand off. He doesn’t look away from Marco’s eyes. He doesn’t even feel afraid, not really.

Marco breathes, and then winces, his hand falling away, “Sorry. Stings a bit.”

Jean laughs weakly, “You idiot. It probably hurts like a bitch.”

“Marco, we’re going to let the cops talk to you,” the nurse says, “And then we’re going to keep you overnight, make sure there aren’t any complications, alright? Should we call your family?”

The nurse gives Jean a very pointed look, and Jean - tears, snot, and blood - wants to flip them off.

“No,” Marco says, and he looks at Jean, “Don’t call my family. They don’t need to be worried about this, not right now.”

Jean starts to protest, but the cops arrive. Jean sees the same officer who took his statement, and she nods to him.

“I’ll wait outside,” Jean tells Marco, and Marco grabs for his hand before he goes. Jean’s eyes find the officer, and she’s looking at him, unconcerned.

“Can you grab my cell phone,” he says, “They’re probably worried about me. Maybe call Christa, ask her if…” he falters, hand loosening, “she, uh, might come and pick me up. Tomorrow?”

Jean scoffs, “Dude,” he says, even as he squeezes Marco’s hand and lets it go, turning toward the hallway, “I’m not leaving this hospital without you.”

 

Jean gets a bag of skittles.

His own phone is overflowing with texts from Rebecca, and he manages a basic - it’s ok, I’m fine - while he picks the green skittles out of the bag.

Marco’s phone is another story. His coworker’s earlier texts about the Michelin star take Jean a good minute to scroll through, but he thinks that Marco should be the one to address them individually. Instead, he calls Christa.

Jean can tell she’s on edge the moment she picks up, voice high and airy. He’s back in this stupid waiting room, trying to pretend like the concept of waiting all night in the waiting room is something he’s looking forward to. He thinks of the car ride when he refused to let Marco take him to the hospital.

_Look at me now. Camping out._

“Marco?”

He clears his throat, “Sorry, no. It’s Jean.”

“Is Marco ok?”

The last time Jean spoke to Christa, Marco had be thawing in his truck. Unharmed, if dazed. He wonders if she’ll be angry that Jean fucked up his rescue so much. Putting the one you’re saving into a worse situation? Probably not going to earn him points.

“...Marco is...fine. Now.”

Christa goes deadly silent.

“What do you mean, now?” she says carefully.

Jean sighs, “There was a...situation. Marco is ok, they are taking care of him, he’s just, uh, not going to be able to come in for work.”

The taste of Skittles makes the story surreal. All sugar, even as he talks about blood. When he says that Marco’s in the hospital, Christa screeches at Ymir to get the keys. He tries to talk her down, but he’s tired - fuck is he tired - and he’s still on the phone with her, until she’s fast-walking down the hallway to get to him.

“Where is he?” she says, face red, voice echoing through the phone call she has yet to hang up. Ymir’s eyes are wide, and Jean wonders if she even heard what had happened, or if her fiance dragged her along without an explanation.

“The cops left a few minutes ago, I’m assuming he’s asleep.”

Ymir says, “Cops?” at the same time Christa marches towards the volunteer, still camped at her desk.

Jean slides back into his seat, head lolling backwards.

The volunteer agrees to check with the nurse if Marco can have other visitors. Jean hears it, his eyes closed. His head has gone from aching to pounding, and knows for certain that those bruises are showing. What was it? One clip to the head, one to the chest, and the one on his face? His whole body hurts.

“Jean?” Ymir asks carefully, and he begrudgingly lifts his head, “Are you alright?”

Jean considers her. He’s only met her twice before, but this time she seems kinder, careful, more than before. He doesn’t know how to answer.

Christa comes back, scowling, “He’s asleep,” she says, “And they won’t let me in.”

She sits beside Jean, hands gripping his thighs, “This has been the worst day,” she grumbles.

“Tell me about it,” Jean mumbles, head falling back.

He doesn’t see the conversation, but he feels the chair move as Christa and Ymir have a silent conversation between themselves. He does not care. Instead, he thinks about commandeering one of the extra beds in the hall and sleeping for, say, a solid decade. He thinks of crawling in beside Marco, and if he even deserves such a luxury now.

“Jean?”

“Mm,” he says.

“Why don’t you head home? Get some rest?” Christa says, and Jean feels a hand on his arm.

He sighs, “I don’t have a way home,” he admits, wondering why he never considers this, “I stayed with Marco in the ambulance.”

Ymir swings her keys out of her pocket, “We can go get your truck?”

He sits up, rubbing his eyes, “...thanks, but no.”

“No?” Christa says.

His face, for all its grime, starts to heat, “I can’t, I, uh…”

“Yeah?”

He looks at the floor, at a black scuff along the linoleum, “I promised Marco I wouldn’t leave without him. The hospital, I mean.”

He thinks he can feel Christa smirking, like she's suddenly validated, or at least just earned the grand prize in a draw for Jean’s reputation.

“I doubt he’d be upset if you left, just briefly, to get him a ride home and a shower. Or,” she says gently, “a few hours of sleep?”

Sleep sounds like another luxury he doesn't deserve, and Jean thinks he can’t afford it regardless.

Ymir grabs his bicep, and pulls him to his feet, “Come on,” she says, “I’ll drive you.”

“But-”

“You smell, and you’re covered in bruises,” she says.

“Ymir,” Christa chides.

Jean bristles, “Um, excuse me?”

“I’m right. Marco deserves someone clean and rested.”

“But-”

“If Marco wakes up, I’ll tell him you put up a fight,” Christa says, “but you need a break, Jean. You already saved him twice,” she says, taking his hand, “Let us help out this once.”

He frowns, “I’m not good at that.”

“At what?”

“At letting someone else help,” he croaks out, and Christa releases him.

“I know. But trust me with Marco, this once,” she says gently, “and I promise I’ll give him back to you.”

Jean digs in his pocket and hands her Marco’s phone, “Then maybe you can deal with the texts that your other coworkers have sent?”

Christa sighs.

But Jean thinks of what she said as Ymir hauls him away, and it makes this tiny, awful, bubble of hope burn in his stomach.

 

Jean retrieves his truck, drives the distance to his house in a half stupor. The lights are off, the farm is absolutely quiet. His father’s car is in the driveway, but when Jean goes in the house is dark, still enough that it’s like no one is home. At the top of the stairs, the door to the master bedroom is closed, foreboding, and behind it Jean hears the murmur of sportscaster voices.

The house is empty, except for the shell of his father. Scraped clean by his mom’s loss.

But Jean is too tired, too aching, too hurt for his father’s apathy to do much damage tonight. He strips off his clothes in the bathroom, tub filling behind him, and inspects his own damage in the mirror. Purple blooms along his chest, across his arms. His face is chubby from swelling. When he slips into the bath, his muscles practically scream. His knuckles are raw, and they sting as they touch water.

There’s a pair of old pajamas, the ones that Marco wore that night Jean was drunk, clean on his shelf, and Jean slips into them. It’s not the same as someone beside him, doesn’t seem familiar as his own bed should, ands it’s a hopeless, lovesick action, but Jean curls under his blankets, feels clothes against his skin, and sleeps with the thought of Marco close enough to touch, close enough to feel his breath, lulling him into whatever comfort he can find. He wants to dream of Marco, he wants to think of the day - god, was it yesterday? - in the car on the way home from Trost. When Jean was so sure he was in love, so safe in that notion.

It feels distant, now. Unreal.

He sleeps for a handful of hours, gets up when it’s still dark. He leaves a note on the farm door for Thomas to tell his father he's gone out, and he’s back in his truck, towards the hospital. _In this never ending dark,_ he thinks.

 

Sleeping in the hospital, Marco thinks, is terrible. He’s a stomach sleeper, but with the tubes in his arms and his leg propped up, and his face an absolute mess, it’s impossible to move, let alone flip onto his side. He manages a solid few hours after the cops leave, and he dreams he’s still on the ground, still surrounded by men with the urge to hurt him burning in their veins, and their words hot on his brain like a fever.

The drugs they gave him don’t help. His dreams are real enough that he feels the pounding kicks in his ribs in time with his own heartbeat - until he wakes up and realizes that it’s a reality, an echo of the event itself. Excellent.

Marco’s never been subtle about his preferences. Not after his dad left. His crushes may have been fleeting, aesthetic, but they’ve never preferred any one gender to another. Jean, though. His feelings for Jean have been strong enough that they seem to move his hands on their own, grasping at him, holding him.

Even tipsy, in that terrible bar, hurt from his failure, it was like he was moving on autopilot, lips reaching for the skin of Jean’s neck, craving his closeness. He didn’t think that anyone would care, heaven forbid care enough to get violent. He forgets, in his insular world of 104, that not all spaces are as safe, or as loved.

They moved on him, though, like a shadow as the sun goes down, like a wave - unstoppable. He stood his ground - they kicked him down. That’s when his knee gave out. Then it was feet, words, pain - and then nothing. Jean was there, and Marco wasn’t, not really, and then it was a blur.

And then Jean in the hospital beside him - crying, apologizing - and cops, checking his statement.

And now, he thinks, as his half-sleep is disturbed by the arrival of a new nurse, now whatever comes next.

“How are we feeling today, Marco?” says the new nurse. She’s wearing a hijab that’s a vibrant red, and Marco smiles, remembering Jean’s ridiculous hat. In another life, it seems. A different restaurant. A different Marco.

“Sore,” he mumbles dryly, “Surprisingly.”

She grins, “Well, lucky for you, the doctor’s coming to see you first, and if all goes well you can go home.”

“Can I have someone with me,” he says, as she checks on his IV, “When the doctor comes in?”

She considers, “Are they family?”

“No.”

“Are they going to be taking care of you when you go home?”

Marco thinks of Jean tucking him into his own bed, kissing him on the forehead.

“I don’t know.”

The nurse looks down at him, not unkindly. She’s holding his chart in her hands, and he thinks she’s considering why he’s here.

“I’ll get someone to fetch him from the waiting room, shall I?”

When Jean comes in, Marco thinks for a moment that his heart monitor might give him away - pulse racing, love obvious - the way it does in stories. But Marco finds that he doesn’t care if it does. Perhaps, then, Jean would have something to smile at, tease him for.

Instead, he looks stretched thin as phyllo - skin raw, bruised, and eyes scanning Marco for details, methodically. He’s showered, Marco thinks, and changed. Christa comes up behind him, then, and Marco’s eyes go wide.

“Christa?”

Christa puts her hand over her mouth in shock, seeing the damage, “Oh my God.”

She doesn’t get a chance to elaborate, as the doctor strides in.

“Marco Bodt,” she says, ducking around Jean and Christa, and grabbing his chart. It’s not a question.

The doctor considers his two guests, and turns away from them to address Marco, “Are these family members?”

Marco shakes his head, and regrets it, “No, but I’d like them to stay.”

She nods, “Right. Well we’ve catalogued your injuries for the police - seems your damage is mostly in your ribs and external appendages. Other than rest, you’ll be fine to recuperate at home,” she makes a note in his chart, “Do you have someone at home to help you until you’re more mobile?”

“Yes.”

Marco’s mouth, halfway to forming no, closes.

It's Jean who says it.

Jean stands, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, looking to Marco almost imploringly. Is this ok? He seems to say.

Marco’s eyes widen, but he manages a nod.

“Good,” says the doctor, addressing Jean, “He’s got to be off his feet for probably a month to six weeks, and his ribs will need at least six weeks as well.”

“Stretching and rehab?” says Jean, and Marco looks at Christa, only to find her looking at him already, taking in his injuries, pale.

“He’ll have to come and get checked after a week, to make sure there are complications, and he’ll be looking at minor strengthening for his leg after the six weeks, potentially. We’ll see how it goes.”

She turns back to Marco, “I’m giving you a prescription for pain management and inflammation. Any questions?”

Marco starts, “Uh, no. No I think we’re, uh. Good. I mean, fine.”

She smiles, “Glad to see this was a best case scenario for you. Take it easy and you should be fine.”

“Thank you.”

After she leaves, Christa gets to Jean first, “You didn't tell me it was this bad.”

Jean looks taken aback, “What do you mean?”

She just shakes her head but Marco thinks he sees the fear in her own eyes, the threat that it might have been her and Ymir. When she looks at him again, he smiles gently. It's not enough, but it's what he's got.

Jean walks over to Marco’s side, “so, uh. I figured you’d need someone to help you,” he doesn’t meet Marco’s eyes, “I mean, if you don’t mind, I-” he stumbles, “I’ll stay with you. For a while.”

Marco reaches out to him, without even thinking, and takes his hand. Jean looks down to where Marco’s fingers grasp his, before he manages to meet Marco’s eyes.

“Thank you, Jean,” Marco says. And - if he’s not imagining it - Jean squeezes his fingers back.

“Don’t worry about work, Marco,” Christa says, handing over his cell phone, still unnerved, and Marco releases Jean’s hand to take it, “We’ll cover for you. Levi and Erwin know what happened - they say to take as long as you need.”

Marco unlocks his phone, and sees the list of notifications long enough he has to scroll, all well wishes and affirmations. He has to hold his phone with two hands, as the finger splint gets in the way. He leaves them unread, to come back to, and looks up at the two of them.

“Well,” he says, “Hopefully today will be better than yesterday,” he says lightly, and finally - winningly - he gets a smile out of Jean.

 

While the hospital bed is shit for sleeping, Marco realizes halfway to Jeans truck that it was ideal for cracked ribs, and he wonders if it's a fair trade off. Every bump of the wheelchair takes his breath away, and it's even harder to get it back when expanding your chest feels like a knife in his side. Literally.

_Thank god they didn't have knives,_ he thinks grimly.

Jean seems to be avoiding looking directly at him, even as he helps Marco into the car, careful about his touches, light and almost afraid.

Shit. Marco wonders if his gratuitous hand holding - his stroking of Jeans face, maybe was too much. Or perhaps - worse - that he took what those men had to say to heart. That maybe Jean's mind was changed by their violence.

Marco feels his throat getting tighter.

“Jean,” he says, as Jean gets into the car beside him, “why aren't you looking at me?”

Maybe it's the mess, or the pain, or the life threatening that only very recently stopped, but Marco finds whatever it is, he doesn't care. He wants to know. He's afraid to know.

Jeans eyes dart to him, then back to the road, as he eases out of the hospital lot.

“I am looking at you,” Jean decides is the best answer. And Marco scoffs. It hurts his ribs.

“I mean my face.”

Jean goes red, “why do you want me to look at your face?”

“Because when you don't, I'm afraid that you're angry with me,” Marco says simply, “or ashamed.”

Jeans knuckles grip the wheel, “what?”

Marco looks away, “maybe you believe them, those men-”

“I am not ashamed, or angry,” Jean says, “at least, not with you.”

Marco looks back at him. Jean worries his lip between his teeth, which is oddly alluring, even given the conversation.

Focus, Marco.

“I'm mad at myself,” Jean finally says, “I should have gone with you out to the car. I should have stopped them sooner.”

“And if you'd been there with all seven of them, would you have stopped them from hurting you too?”

Jean doesn't respond.

“You're good, Kirschtein, but I think even you would have had trouble with seven opponents. The fact that you took out so many is already incredible.”

Jean huffs, “hardly.”

“It is,” says Marco, “and I mean it when I say thank you.”

“...and this,” Jean says, and Marco doesn't know what this he's talking about. For a brief, glorious moment he wonders if Jean means he two of them. Together.

“Me hanging out, helping you out at home…you don't mind?”

Marco nearly laughs. Mind? Would Marco mind Jean living with him for a few weeks, always nearby, a constant and wonderful reminder of his completely untoward love? Worried that he'll slip up and kiss the shit out of him, maybe, but mind?

“Jean you are absolutely welcome to stay. I don't even know how to thank you.”

“Maybe you'd prefer your family? Or Christa?”

Marco, smiles, and Jean looks away from the road fleetingly, as if to see if it's real, “I want my family to come, yeah, once some of the worst swelling has gone down. I don't want them to be worried for me, not when I'm so far away. But that doesn't mean I don't want you around, as well.”

The affection bubbles in Marco like soap, sweet and bitter, light as air, “I always want you around.”

It's close. It's dangerously close. But it's true. And if you can't say true things after the worst day of your life, when can you?

Jean goes a delicate red, eyes now glued to the road, “yeah, well. You're not bad to have around all the time either,” he mutters.

Marco turns his smile to the window.

“You should tell your family, though,” Jean says, and Marco turns back to him, surprised, “they should know.”

“You think so?”

Jeans face has gone cold, “I know what's it like to hear what happened after the fact. It's…” he nearly shudders, “it's not worth it.”

Marco realizes that Jean is talking about his mother, calling him too late with the news she wasn't going to last. He swallows the guilty bile rising in his throat, “you're right Jean, I didn't think.”

“It's ok,” Jean shrugs, “just...they should know.”

“Have you told your father?” Marco asks lightly, “about it...or about, you know. Agreeing to help me out.”

“No,” Jean says, “and I doubt he'd care.”

 

His house is the most welcome thing he's seen all day. It's cold inside, but his blankets are still in their messy piles, his kitchen still full of dishes. Even in pain, it's a welcome, welcome sight. He gets Jean to help him on to the couch, sighing when his weight drops into the cushions. Home. Safe.

Jean deposits him gingerly on the couch, and stands back, wondering what to do next. Marco watches him look at the dishes, considering, and at the tv. Here, in Marco's own setting, he fits. Handsome and straightforward, Marco thinks, like he belongs.

“What, uh,” Jean says, “should I do?”

As much as Marco loves having Jean here, his body is quite sure it needs sleep. And a bath.

_Oh, shit._

He feels his face go warm, his heartbeat rising. Jean, perceptively, notices.

“What's wrong? Are you ok?”

Marco waves him off, “I'm fine, Nothing hurts any worse than before, I just,” he looks away, at his ceiling, the lights brighter than the hospitals, “I was just thinking that I need a bath.”

Jean practically freezes. Marco wonders if he could manage alone, and then thinks about the prospect of reaching up to wash his hair and he feels dizzy. But Jean would never agree, and it would be awkward and uncomfortable-

“Uh. Ok.”

Marco snaps to look at him, “what?”

Jean looks back, “What do you mean, what?”

“I, uh, am just surprised. That you'd be willing to help me, uh. Bathe?”

“Are you worried about me seeing you naked?” Jean says, and Marco must be imagining the way his voice seems to curve around the word naked, “I've been in anatomy classes for the past four years, you know, it's like - clinical apathy at this point.”

Marco thinks he should be insulted, “clinical apathy?”

“Whatever!” Jean runs his hands through his hair, and it stands up higher than normal. It's adorable, but Marco shouldn't be thinking that about someone about to help him strip down, “just, it doesn't have to be weird. Unless you're embarrassed?”

Oh Marco is. He so is.

“Of course I'm embarrassed.”

“Then do you want me to call someone else to help? Or skip the bath?”

“There's not really anyone in the city to call,” Marco admits, “and even if I'm embarrassed it's not quite enough to really persuade me to continuing smelling like a hospital.”

He looks at Jean. Jean looks back.

“...I'll run the water then?” Jean says finally.

 

The worst part is getting there. Walking would be fine, Marco thinks, if he had support - but support uses his abs, and nothing besides absolute stillness seems to appease those muscles, which is fun when it comes to breathing. Jean tries his best to support him, but it still leaves Marco breathless by the time they get the ten feet to the washroom and deposit him on the edge of the tub.

Jean keeps looking at him and then away, as if dwelling too long on any one part of Marco might seem indecent. He reaches around Marco to turn on the tub, testing the temperature.

Marco stretches out his legs. His body feels jittery, but his muscles don't move. It's like a can of pop, after being shaken, waiting for someone to pop the tab. Jean is too close for him to settle, and yet Marcos agreed to let him bathe him, so it's unlikely that's going to change.

It would be the same, Marco tells himself, if anyone was here, and I was in the same position. My friends would help me the same way, and it would be just as awkward.

What a lie.

When Jean finally straightens, the tub filling steadily, leaching steam into the room, he looks almost sheepish. Marco nearly laughs. He wonders if the roles were reversed, if he would agree to help the way Jean had. Or, heaven forbid, if it was Jean with the unrequited love, sitting, hoping and dreading Marco helping him out of his clothes.

Jean clears his throat, “still sure?”

Marco nods, hands coming up to try and lift his shirt over his head, and his chest burning as his arms move. Jeans hands, suddenly, are next to his, taking the fabric and stretching it up, away from Marco. It nearly gets stuck around his head, but Marco manages to shrug it off. His chest is cold already, hyper sensitive to Jean nearby. Marco lets him tug at the wrapping, unwinding around his chest slowly, carefully. Every glance of his fingers is warm.

Jean inhales. The wrappings are off. Marcos chest is visible now, and he looks down at it, bare, for the first time since the night before.

It's brutal. Purple around the edges, but mostly a mottled, sickly green, tinged in radial circles all over. The pain seems worse, now that he sees it. Now that he knows what they did to him, visibly catalogued over his skin, his bones.

“Marco?”

Marco looks up. Jeans frowning at him, worried. It only registers slowly that Marcos face is damp.

He shudders, breath breaking and hurting and unsteady. Jeans hands appear next to him, framing him against the edge of the tub. Next to those hands, Marco can see he's shaking, the fizz inside him finally bubbling up and over.

Marco doesn't look at him, “Were...were you scared? When it happened?”

Jeans voice is close, soft, “fucking terrified.”

And Marco breaks.

He doesn't move, but Jean is there, his hands so gently embracing his back. Marcos head finds Jeans shoulder, his fingers grab at his shirt, clawing at his back, trembling.

Jean gathers Marco to him, sighs against his hair, and Marco cries. He sobs, really, unleashed, knowing logically that now that he's safe, that Jean is here, that they are surrounded by familiar walls, that the reality sinks into him.

“I thought I was going to die,” he sobs, “that they would kill me.”

“No way would I let that happen,” Jean murmurs into his hair, voice rough, “no fucking way.”

“I didn’t-didn't know what to do.”

Jean doesn't say anything, but Marco feels distantly that his fingers press into his back.

“I know.”

“I didn't know if you would find me in time.”

“I ran to you, Marco. I - I should have been faster, but I ran to get to you.”

Marcos hands tighten, pulling Jean closer, not caring how it looks, only wanting Jean against him. The sobs hurt, they pull his stomach, and he can't catch his breath. He can feel Jeans shirt getting damp with tears, and probably not a little snot, but he stays.

He stays for a minute, an hour, an infinity, held by Jean Kirschtein. Until the shaking seems to fade, until the tears hurt more than they heal.

Marco pulls away, wincing, and regards Jean. Jean, whose hands grip his forearms now, serious and sad.

“Thank you,” Marco says quietly.

“Hell, You deserve to cry,” Jean says.

“For coming for me,” Marco corrects, “for saving me.”

Jean looks away, and Marco wishes he wouldn't. He wishes that Jean would keep looking, and that Marco could close the distance, say what he means in kisses, soft, along his jawbone.

The bath is nearly overflowing, and Jean swears, moving to turn off the water. Marco stays, huddling, wishing he was brave enough to kiss Jean, and terrified of the thought, and sad, and overwhelmed, and a million damnable human emotions wrapped into a broken and bruised body.

Jean comes back, kneeling again, “so,” he says, “feel like taking off your pants?”

And it's absurd and stupid and Marco can't help the smile that breaks across his face. Even though it feels alien.

“You're not great at segues, Jean,” Marco says, and Jean, unwillingly it seems, smiles with him.

It isn't a sexy thing, helping someone get out of a pair of pants after you've just sobbed into their shoulder. It feels different now, intimate but stable, as between the two of them they manage to get Marcos jeans out from under him, enough that he can kick them off with his undamaged leg.

Jean looks at him, and at his black boxer briefs, and Marco swears he's about to pass out, or explode, whichever comes first. Marco sighs, “uh, maybe…”

“Keep them on?”

Marco nods sheepishly, “I'm not...I'm- just...I feel a bit vulnerable?”

Jean sighs audibly with relief, and Marco decides not to unpack that. Jean nods instead, and he manages to help Marco sink into the water - ungracefully, and with the majority of the overfull bath getting on him, it seems.

Jean looks at his shirt and says, “fuck it. Might as well make you feel less underdressed,” and he pulls it off.

It's not the first time Marcos seen Jean without a shirt, but before it had been dark, and Jean had been drunk.

Now, in the halogens of his bathroom, Jean half-dressed seems to take his breath away. Marco tries not to stare, but it's difficult - if not for the fact that Jeans very fit, very bare chest is making his heart hammer unsteadily, then for the bruises peppering it in purple.

There's a large one spreading as his ribs, and smaller ones along his shoulders - some of them small enough to look like the press of fingers, others subtle and dull.

“But you beat them,” Marco says before he stops himself, and he feels his face go red.

Jean sits beside the bath, arms hugging his knees, “they got a few punches in,” he says defensively, “there were a lot of them.”

“I just assumed you, I don't know. Slipped past them,” Marco says helplessly.

Jean scoffs, “finally got to use my fighting skills,” Jean says, and finally he looks up at Marco, through his eyelashes, blushing and flustered, and beautiful. Marco aches looking at him. His fear turns to anger that someone - anyone - touched Jean like that.

It hurts a little, but Marco reaches up and lays his hand flat along Jean's ribs. His skin is cool compared to the water, but tinged with a faint warmth, alive and healing.

Jean all but gasps.

Marcos hand immediately retreats.

“Sorry-”

But Jean shakes his head, and won't meet Marcos eyes, “didn't hurt,” he mumbles.

“Oh.”

They feel close, tipping in one direction and then another, as of they both are about to tumble into something neither of them can explain. Marco’s mind, overrun with Jean, asks him, truly, if it would be so unreasonable for this man to love him - even a fraction of what Marco could hope for.

Perhaps-

“So what should I do?” Jean says suddenly, the words forced out, and Marco shakes himself from his thoughts.

“What?”

“Do you still need help,” Jean says, glancing quickly up and then away, “or should I, uh. Go?”

Marco imagines Jeans hands washing his skin, and decides he might be crossing a line with that one.

“Um,” he says instead, “would it be weird for you to, uh...help me with my hair? Even with your wrist?”

And Jean, carefully blank, nods.

 

Marcos hair has always been a fascination to Jean.

His own hair is brittle and unruly and he only sometimes dyes it lighter than it's supposed to be. It's ashy blonde, cut long on the top and short on the sides, and seems darker where it sits closer to his skin, but not dark like Marcos. Marcos hair is dark-chocolate brown, deep enough when wet to be mistaken for black, shiny and perfect like everything else about Marco.

Jean has had dreams - not particularly risqué ones - where he gets to touch Marcos hair as much as he likes, run his fingers through it, down to his face. Marco would sigh against his touch, and Jean would swim in the sound.

Now, faced with it, Jean is terrified.

His hands are lathered up, and Marcos leaning back against the edge of the tub, but Jean doesn't know how to do this. He's never washed hair before, never with a bad wrist, and certainly never the hair of someone he's secretly in love with.

His good hand goes first, and Marcos hair - damp and dark - is fine under his fingers. Huh. He tries to remember how they do this at the barbers, and he tries to work at Marcos head with the barest edges of his nails.

Marco sighs.

Jean tries not to freeze, but his face heats, his body heats, and he is going to die from this.

He hates how close this is letting him be, how near Marcos face is. Marcos eyes are closed, his lips part, and even with the cuts and bruises Jean thinks he is beautiful. He wants to kiss him.

Instead, he catches a drip of shampoo bubbles heading towards Marcos eye with his bad hand, thumb brushing against his skin, and Marco opens his eyes, watching him.

Jean doesn't sit back, or blink away this time.

Marco is all but staring at him, eyes intense.

God lord, Marco Bodt might kiss me, his brain whispers. He wants it - wants to move first - he's terrified.

But then Marco swears, and Jean realizes that the shampoo is now definitely in his eyes, and he moves his hands as marco starts wiping at his face.

“Shit, dunk your head,” Jean says, but when Marco moves he groans with the pain of his ribs.

“Aw, fuck,” Jean says, and starts scooping water from the tub on to Marcos head, only to realize this is making it worse, and Marco bats his hands away.

“Sorry!”

“Jean-”

Fuck it.

Jean stands, grabs the shower head, and spins on the water, dousing Marco, even though he knows it's probably fucking freezing. He only stops when Marco starts sputtering, hair in his eyes now, and Jean turns it off and stands, unsure, watching.

Marco looks like a cat that's just been thrown in a tub unwillingly. His hair drips down is face, shoulders slumped, and Jean wonders if he should apologize. But then, somehow, Marco starts to laugh.

He laughs, and Jean grins and joins him unwillingly, and they both giggle as Marco flips his hair out of his face and flaps his hands at Jean to get him to stop laughing cause it hurts too damn much.

Finally, sadly, the laughter subsides and it's just Jean collapsed on the floor besude the tub and Marco sprawled in the lukewarm water, grinning at one another.

“I'm think I'm good. With the bath,” Marco says, and then concedes, “shower, really.”

“Fuck you,” Jean says, smiling.

“You're really bad at washing hair.”

“Not my fallback career, then?”

Marco smiles, “definitely not.”

 

They manage to get Marco out of the tub, and he lets Jean leave his bedroom while he struggles into a new pair of boxers to save him the embarrassment. It hurts like a truck slamming into his chest when he bends over, but it's worth the lack of embarrassment.

By the time he has them on, he sits on the bed, exhausted and aching.

He wishes that he could wake up tomorrow and go to work - work before Christmas, when things were looking up, when it didn't hurt to breathe. He wishes that he wasn't scared now, of the thought of sleeping and waking alone, with the memories lurking in his dreams and following him out into the world.

There's a knock on the door.

“Marco?”

“I'm decent.”

Jean sticks his head in the door first, but doesn't come all the way in. Marco realizes Jean’s never been in his room before, and ushers him in tiredly.

It's a sparse set up. His bed is on one of those expensive platforms that his mother convinced him looked very grown up, and besides the bedside tables it's got a few potted plants and nothing else. But Jean glances over at them and sees only the back wall - all windows looking over the ravine. There's no land beneath this room, only the rocky edge of the escarpment, and then the spindly, empty trees stretching up from below.

“Damn,” Jean breathes, and any other time Marco would have agreed but now he's suddenly exhausted, and he attempts to collapse on the bed. Luckily, wincing and gritting your teeth are excellent signs that you need help, and Jean grabs his arm, hooks an arm around his waist, and lowers Marco down. It would be an embrace that Marco would overthink, cherish even, but not now. Now he lets Jean tug his blankets from under him.

“You need a shirt,” Jean says, but Marco waves him off, “then you need new bandages or you're going to bleed all over your sheets.”

Marco nods, eyes already closing. It's less effort, he realizes, when he's sitting up, to let Jean do all the work, and Marco nearly falls asleep sitting up, even as Jean wraps his chest. Marco barely registers the feeling of Jean’s hands, only the softness of the bed under him, and the way his body won't let him move any more than it needs.

But still, even as Jean helps him lie down, even as his mind drifts, he's afraid. Afraid to sleep and dream again of the attackers. Afraid to be alone here, with Jean far away again, that isolation pushing on him, smothering him.

He doesn't realize he's reached out to Jean until Jean’s hands close over his.

“Marco?”

“Don't go,” Marco whispers, eyes flickering open.

Jean looks so soft, now, so calm. Not angry or scowling. Like he's open, like he's gentle. Marco remembers his voice, even as the pain loosened Marcos consciousness. I'm here. I've got you.

“Please. M’scared.”

Jeans breathes. In. Out. Marcos hands lose their grip. He's too tired.

“Yeah. I'll stay.”

Marco smiles, eyes refusing to open.

“Just let me-”

Marco is half asleep, but he hears Jean leave. He hears the shower go on, then off, the lights flick off, and he feels Jeans hand, minutes later, as it touches Marcos arm.

“I'm just on the couch-”

Marco mumbles, brow creasing, “here.”

“Here?”

Marco nods, barely, “here.”

He feels the weight of Jean as he lowers himself into the bed beside Marco. He feels the way the warmth of another person - of Jean - makes the fear weaker, farther. He feels Jeans hand, gently, touch his arm with the gentlest nudge.

And then he sleeps.

 

Jeans phone buzzes against the table.

He's so warm. So soft. Everything smells like Marco, feels soft like him, like his hair. Sleep lures him back, where he's safe, where he's home.

His phone buzzes again.

Jean opens his eyes. Marcos hair is so close to him, nose tucked into Jeans shoulder, arm against arm. The closeness hits him gently, the love of it, the intimacy. Marcos face, beautiful and sleep-soft, and all Jean wants to do to fall back asleep pressed near to this boy-

His phone goes off again.

Jean sighs, and pulls away, slowly, and Marco doesn't stir.

_Please call your father,_ it says. _We had to tell him where you were._ From Hannes.

Rebecca says _you said you were alright, but we don't know where you are and don't know what to tell him._

_Let me know what I can do._

How he wishes he could close his eyes and go back to sleep. Back to Marco.

He gets up.

 

Marco feels the shifting of the room, hears the softness of someone's footsteps on the carpet, the tab as a phone is unlocked, a message typed. Soft noises, but not as soft as sleep, as silence.

He shifts, feels the tugging of his injuries, and moans against the pillow. It smells like Jean.

“Jean?” Marco mumbles into the room. It's too dark to see much, his eyes don't want to open.

“Shh,” Jean says, and Marco feels rather than sees him sit on the bed, “it's alright. I'll be back soon, just go back to sleep.”

“Where,” mumbles Marco, and he reaches out, sleep slurring his mind and his words. Jeans hand, solid and warm, grips his gently.

“Just have to do something at home.”

“Stay,” Marco whispers, enjoying the feel of Jeans hand, drifting.

“Not this time,” Jean says softly, “I'll be back soon.”

“Back to me,” Marco mumbles.

“Back to you,” Jean agrees.

And he's pulling away and Marco is back to sleep.

 

It's early, farm early. The city is frozen, icy, empty, and Jean drives through, cold to the core even as the heat blasts. He hates this truck right now, it makes him jittery being in it, too familiar, too unfamiliar with the associations it's gained overnight.

His house has the kitchen lights on, the cold, pale light over the sink. There's a lamp on in living room, he can see as he walks towards the house, but nothing else. The farm is still dark. It's earlier than he thought.

He wants to be back in Marcos bed.

Greg Kirschtein looks up from the table as the front door closes, Jean stepping inside. He gets to his feet, and already he's angry.

“Where the hell have you been?” Greg says, “you've been gone for two days, no word, no text, and now you come in, with the shit beaten out of you. Do you have any idea how worried I've been? I had to hear from Hannes that you were in the hospital?”

Jean wants to turn around and leave, but he doesn't. He doesn't mention that there was no texts from his father on his phone, no calls.

“Dad, it was an emergency-”

“And you don't think it was worth it to tell me?” Greg billows, anger growing.

Jean walks forward, “I'm sorry, alright? A friend of mine was attacked, he ended up in the hospital, and I stayed to help.”

“Jean, you can't disappear without letting me know - especially if you've ended up in the hospital. A call, anything?” Normally, the tone would be disappointed, questioning. Now it's harsh. Demanding.

He can practically taste the blood as he bites his tongue against a retort. Jean is the one who's been dealing with disappearing family members, not Greg. He sighs.

“You're right. I got caught up. I'm sorry.”

Greg doesn't deflate. Jean can see that he's worked himself up to this, sitting in the dark, alone. Like a hurricane, Jean will have to wait for it to pass.

“You know, Jean,” he says, mouth turning into a disappointed line, “you live under my roof, again, and I need you to respect that fact.”

Jean swallows his frustration, his anger. This is not about that, and Greg knows it. _He just wants to yell_ , Jean thinks.

“This was irresponsible and reckless of you,”

_I am not the irresponsible one between the two of us, I've been keeping this household together, and you aren't even able to see that._

Greg gestures to the bruises, the bandages, “and you got in a serious enough fight that you couldn't make it out unscathed, and didn't even think about coming home-”

“I did come home,” Jean says, and it slips out. But he's tired, burning with his retorts, and it slips out. He closes his eyes briefly. This won't stop the anger, he knows it.

“What?”

Don't say it. Wait for this to blow over. Greg’s anger has always simmered, boiled, and retreated. It’s rarely something that spills over and floods the stove.

“I did come home, but you were locked in your room,” Jean says, and he raises his eyes to meet his fathers, “you didn't notice me, because you were locked in your room again.”

It's a threat, almost, a challenge. Jean wants to bring the words back. He wants to throw them farther.

Gregs eyes narrow, “excuse me?”

“You can't call me irresponsible, when most of the time you're barely able to get out of your room. Barely able to eat, to pay the bills,” Jean’s anger rises to meet his fathers, even as he tries to swallow it down, “I got caught in an emergency situation, and yeah, I forgot to call. But don't lecture me about the responsibilities of living here, if you're not able to deal with them yourself.”

Greg steps forward, “that is unacceptable-”

“No, Dad, it's not. Lets not pretend that you haven't been shutting down on me, on everything, for the past six months-”

“I'm trying my best!”

“No, you're shutting everything out!”

“Shut your mouth!” Gregs hands slam on the table.

“I won't, I refuse to keep ignoring this, not if you're blaming me for something unreasonable - god, do you even care about what happened to me? Or is it more about how I inconvenienced you, when you needed me around-”

“- how dare you-”

“Because I choose to help Marco over you-”

And Jean chokes on his next words, because Greg has frozen, eyes blazing. And Jean remembers seeing this look, a lifetime ago, when Jean had sat his parents down and told them, carefully, unsteady but hopeful, about a French boy with a wonderful smile and how when he was around, Jean felt like the world was floating, like it was perfect-

And Greg Kirschtein had told his son that there was no way that beautiful French boy could be anything for his son. Or any other boy. That to be gay was to stop being loved by his father. That was when the anger had flooded, and Jean drowned in it, and is still coughing up the backwash.

“Marco Bodt?” Greg says, and Jean exhales, feeling the rush of fear. Funny, how similar it feels to facing down three men in an alleyway.

“Yes, Dad. I stayed with Marco in the hospital, after he was attacked.”

“And should I believe you this time, or perhaps you'll add in some other friends to this story, so I won't question it?”

Jean frowns, “what-”

“-because it's funny, it certainly didn't look like Connie and Sasha in that car picking you up at Christmas.”

Jean’s mouth goes dry. He remembers the curtains shifting, barely, that morning, and thinking nothing of it. Thinking only that he was with Marco.

But it would have been his father, seeing the smile on Jean’s face as he got to finally see Marco, and knowing that Jean had lied to him.

“I’m sorry-” Jean says, and it comes out as a whisper.

“That you lied to me, you mean? Or that you spent a week doing god-knows-what with this ‘friend’, “Greg spits, “Because it sure seems to me like you’re being irresponsible and reckless, and hanging around with the wrong sort of people.”

The fear in Jean’s gut seems to twist, somehow, recede from the edges of him. His fingers, numb and frozen, twitch. It’s so similar, somehow, to those other men.

“How dare you go behind my back, with a boy, no less - and then have the gall to tell me that I’ve let you down,” Greg says, “And how dare you think that this is appropriate - because I told you, years ago, that it wasn’t.”

The fear loosens. Inappropriate. As if Jean’s sexuality were wrong, somehow. And, now, Jean can see the lie in it this time. Before, with Henri, it had seemed like Jean agreed with his father, even when his mother had his back. That if he denied that part of him, it would go away. That it wouldn’t mean anything, and that his father could eventually accept him again.

But, Jean thinks, how is it wrong? How is this love for Marco, this kind and strong and supportive love, this secret, how is it anything but true. Honest. Built on a friendship that Jean desperately needed, and evolving into something more intimate, more meaningful, than he could have imagined. When his mother had died, there was so much love lost, so much of him lost. To find it now, to find love, seems like a goddam miracle to him.

Greg Kirschtein, Jean thinks, has let me down. And Marco has lent me the hand to help me back up. And I will love him, Jean says to himself, for this, and for a million other reasons, unabashedly.

And my mother would have been proud of me for it.

“No,” Jean says quietly, and he realizes the fear has retreated, enough he can feel his heartbeat again, no longer iced by doubt, “No, it’s not inappropriate.”

“What?”

“And those years ago, you not accepting what you knew was the truth, that I was - am - gay,” Jean swallows, “That was inappropriate. Mom knew that.”

Greg Kirschtein recoils, “Don’t-”

“No, dad,” Jean says, breathing, “I will talk about her. I will talk about this. Because I need to - even if you aren’t ready.”

“Because I love Marco Bodt,” he says, “And I lied to you because I knew what you would say. You’ve said it before. I lied because I needed to talk about mom with someone, and he let me - he let me be sad, and overwhelmed, when you’ve made me shoulder that myself.”

“You’re not - not...like that,” Greg bites out the words.

Jean shakes his head, “I am like that.”

“You,” Greg says, and Jean watches as his hands shake, his eyes furious, “You can’t come home and tell me this, blame me for grieving -”

“I’m not blaming you!” Jean says, and he feels the shift in the conversation, the rise in temperature, “But you’ve shut me out -”

“-I’m dealing with this the best way I can-”

“-No you aren’t, dad,” Jean says, his voice breaking, “You can’t really think that.”

Greg slams his hands on the table, “I’m done, Jean. Get out.”

Jean takes a step forward, “What?”

“I’m done. You want to criticism me for the way I’m dealing with this, and want to tell me that you like men, and lie to me, you don’t get to be here.”

“Dad?” Jean’s voice breaks.

But Greg Kirschtein’s anger only overtakes him, and he kicks the table over, shattering a glass of water, scattering pages. It’s sudden and frightening, and a million times scarier than back alleys and angry strangers.

Jean takes a step back, shaking, “Dad, please, don’t - I’m sorry I lied, I am, but please. I don’t want to lose you-”

“Get out!” Greg yells, “You don’t have a place here anymore, you can stay with him if that makes you so goddamn happy! But I won’t accept a son who blames me for grieving-”

“-dad, please-”

Greg advances on Jean, and Jean all but slams his back into the kitchen door, “Or one who’s fucking queer,” he snarls, “You think I’ve left you alone? Fine - then leave!”

Jean scrambles for the door handle, and he all but falls out the door, closing it as he hears Greg pick up a pitcher from the counter and throw it at the now shut door. The shattering is muffled, by the door, by the sound of Jean’s breathing, and by the car engine as he starts the truck and backs on to the road.

He almost hits Thomas’ van as it pulls into the farmyard, the blue of the paint smudged as tears blur his vision. Jean swerves in time, yanks his truck on to the road, and drives.

 

The call with Marco’s mom ends with her promising to make it down within twelve hours.

Funny, Marco thinks, the process of telling someone you’ve been beaten up. Surreal, even, like the event didn’t happen. His ribs, his leg remind him, but there’s still the disconnect in his head between the event and the result.

At least Eline seemed not too panicked. Worried, maybe, but it helps that Marco’s out of the hospital, at least.

He lies back on the bed, phone resting on his stomach. He's so tired. He can practically feel his body draining all its energy into knitting himself back together. Half asleep, he drifts, thinking of Jeans hands in his hair, of warm water, of Jean so close and gentle before he left-

The front door opens, and Marco tries to shake himself awake. Jeans home, he thinks, grinning to himself. Jean knocks on the bedroom.

“Where'd you go-” Marco starts, but he can see the smudged and broken eyes from phere, “Jean?”

“He kicked me out,” Jean says, voice breaking, and Marco reaches out to him without thinking, pulls him towards him, and Jean shatters as he's wrapped in Marcos arms into a million fragments.

The two of them, hurt and infinitely tired, barely hold each other up. But they do, somehow, like stacked cards, thin and infinitesimal, but refusing to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely promise it gets happier. Also gratuitious bath scene? Worth it maybe?


End file.
